FOUR  PLAYS 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  EMILE  AUGIER 
WITH  A  PREFACE  BY  EUGENE  BRIEUX 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/fourplaysOOaugiiala 


FOUR  PLAYS  BY  AUGIER 


THE    FOLLOWING    ARE    THE 
FOUR  PLAYS  IN  THIS   VOLUME 

OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 
MONSIEUR  POIRIERS  SON-IN-LAW 
THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 
THE  POST-SCRIPT 


FOUR  PLAYS 

By  EMILE  AUGIER 


TRANSLATED  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

By  BARRETT   H  CLARK 
WITH   A   PREFACE  BY  BRIEUX 


NEW  YORK '  ALFRED  A  KNOPF  H  9 1 5 


COPYRIGHT.  1915.  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


THR>FLIMrTOIf<PKBSS 
NORWOOD- MASS>n-S'A 


To  J.  RALPH  BENZIES 
This  volume  is  affectionately  dedicated. 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE  [LETTER  BY  BRIEUX]  vii 

INTRODUCTION  [BY  BARRETT  H.  CLARK]  xi 

LIST  OF  PLAYS  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY  uvii 

OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  I 

[LE   MARIAGE   D'OLYMPE] 

MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  71 

[LE  GENDRE  DE   M.  POIRIER] 

THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  141 

[LES  FOURCHAMBAULT] 

THE  POST-SCRIPT  217 

[LE  POST-SCRIPTUM] 


PREFACE 

My  Dear  Mr.  Clark: 

AS  I  had  occasion  to  explain  to  you  when  you  were  planning 
the  present  volume,  I  can  see  among  the  numerous 
reasons  for  the  success  which  it  will  achieve  that  it  is 
above  all  a  timely  book,  introducing  as  it  does  the  work  of  Emile 
Augier  to  the  American  public  at  the  moment  when  the  evolution 
of  the  taste  of  that  public  is  directing  it  precisely  toward  that 
form  of  dramatic  art  which  is  exemplified  by  the  author  of  "Le 
Gendre  de  M.  Poirier."  No  longer  content  merely  with  dramas  of 
adventure  and  plays  in  which  sensational  incidents  and  arbitrary 
development  render  them  closely  akin  to  the  newspaper  serial 
or  the  fairy-tale,  this  public  has  ceased  looking  to  the  theatre 
solely  as  an  amusement,  a  pleasant  recreation  and  distraction 
from  its  daily  occupations;  it  is  now  interested  in  more  complex 
problems;  it  is  willing  to  listen  to  arguments  —  a  process  more 
taxing,  possibly,  than  the  other,  but  thereby  only  the  more 
fascinating.  Avid  of  progress  and  bent  on  the  quest  of  the  most 
recent  and  most  profound  manifestations  of  thought,  it  cannot 
fail  at  this  time  to  take  an  interest  in  the  theatre  of  ideas.  In- 
deed, if  the  drama  of  Ibsen  has  already  attracted  the  attention 
of  this  public,  it  is  certain  that  there  has  existed  some  transitional 
form  of  dramatic  art  between  that  drama  and  the  works  first 
presented  in  America. 

Each  epoch  has  its  particular  way  of  thinking  and  its  particu- 
lar kind  of  plays.     Our  epoch  is  that  of  the  social  play. 

The  material  progress  of  civilization,  reducing  the  distance 
and  obstacles  which  hitherto  separated  the  nations,  has  resulted 
in  bringing  us  closer  to  one  another,  arousing  our  common 
interests  and  stimulating  those  mental  and  spiritual  qualities 


viii  PREFACE 

which  unite  the  Old  World  with  the  New.  This  art  in  my 
opinion  is  only  the  result  of  that  sympathetic  note  which  we  seek 
in  those  who  not  many  years  ago  were  total  strangers  to  us. 

You  have  made  a  most  wise  and  careful  choice  among  the 
works  of  Emile  Augier. 

"Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier,"  his  most  celebrated  comedy, 
together  with  "Les  Fourchambault "  and  "Le  Mariage 
d'Olympe/*  set  forth  and  defend  principles  and  ideas  which 
cannot  but  find  favour  in  the  United  States. 

This  play  []"Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier"]]  may  be  compared 
with  an  exciting  and  chivalrous  tournament,  in  which  the  con- 
testants represent  the  two  forms  of  nobility:  that  of  the  heart  or 
spirit,  nobility  pure  and  simple,  and  that  of  caste.  The  first 
triumphs  over  the  other,  yet  without  crushing  it — as  is  just  and 
fitting.  Antoinette  Poirier,  having  succeeded  in  arousing  the 
enthusiasm  and  admiration  of  her  husband  the  Marquis  de 
Presles  to  the  point  where  he  renders  her  the  highest  possible 
homage  —  he  acknowledges  that  in  her  heart  he  has  found  that 
of  his  mother  the  Marquise  —  exclaims,  wounded  and  yet  radi- 
antly happy  in  the  full  consciousness  of  her  legitimate  pride: 
"  I  have  my  mother's  heart!" 

This  play  then  sums  up  in  these  two  speeches  —  one  uttered 
by  the  representative  of  individual  pride,  the  other  by  the  repre- 
sentative of  traditional  haughtiness,  which  may  occasionally 
hide  but  never  destroy,  the  essential  qualities  of  the  aristocracy. 

Here  is  depicted  that  struggle,  intelligent,  courteous,  tender, 
too,  between  race  and  caste,  with  honor  in  the  balance.  In 
short,  here  we  are  able  to  observe  commonsense,  sentiment,  and 
French  good-humour  finally  at  swords'  points  with  traditional 
pride  and  all  its  concomitant  sophistry,  achieving  a  triumph,  a 
triumph  however  over  what  is  conventional  and  superficial  in 
this  ancient  pride,  for  it  respects  and  honours  the  prestige  and 
greatness  of  the  past  and  even  admits  the  charm  of  aristocratic 
idiosyncrasies. 

Finally,  as  a  sort  of  compensation  due  us  for  the  exaggera- 
tions of  the  Naturalistic  School,  there  is  not  a  single  odious 


PREFACE  ix 

personage  in  this  lively  and  natural  comedy,  for  Madame 
de  Mont  jay  is  only  a  dramatic  "utility,"  which  Augier  took 
pleasure  in  relegating  far  into  the  background. 

As  for  the  Marquis  de  Presles,  he  is  exquisitely  French,  and 
his  purely  superficial  faults  scarcely  detract  from  his  charm  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Poirier-Verdelet  partnership.  Nor  do  the  petty 
meannesses  of  these  old  gentlemen  greatly  lower  them  in  our 
eyes  —  what  a  good  excuse  they  have!  After  this  optimistic 
and  charming  play  it  was  necessary  to  select  one  showing  Emile 
Augier  under  his  severest  aspect.  You  have  done  this  in  choos- 
ing "  Le  Mariage  d'Olympe." 

Emile  Augier  has  always  stood  for  the  great  middle  classes. 
Its  ideals  are  order  and  regularity,  justice,  the  family  and  fire- 
side. He  considers  from  a  tragic  viewpoint  what  Moliere 
laughed  at  in  order  not  to  cry  over,  and  he  st£mds  forth  as 
champion  against  every  peril  which  threatens  to  destroy  conjugal 
happiness. 

His  middle-class  honesty  prevented  his  sentimentalising  over 
the  lot  of  the  prostitute;  throughout  his  plays  he  shows  himself 
her  constant  enemy.  His  Olympe  is  the  exact  counterpart  of 
Marguerite  Gautier  in  "  La  Dame  aux  camelias  " :  she  is  a  cynical 
and  insidious  being,  whom  unhoped-for  good  fortune  has  not 
succeeded  in  overthrowing. 

Having  made  her  way  by  subterfuge  into  society  and  the 
intimacy  of  the  family  circle,  she  does  not  seek  real  redemption. 
Seized  with  a  homesickness  for  her  vile  past,  she  makes  use  of 
her  position  only  in  order  to  wreck  the  happiness  of  those  about 
her,  up  to  the  day  when  the  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  whose 
nephew  she  has  ensnared  and  married,  puts  an  end  to  her  in  an 
access  of  indignation. 

In  "Les  Fourchambault "  we  observe  the  struggle  between 
ambition  and  the  material  interests  on  the  one  hand,  and  natural 
impulse  and  the  true  nobility  of  the  heart  on  the  other.  In  every 
scene  Emile  Augier  maintains  his  antipathy  to  fortunes  which, 
when  they  are  not  honourably  acquired,  are  the  brutal  weapons 
directed  against  those  who  are  weaker,  or  else  when  they  are 


X  PREFACE 

utilised  for  ends  to  which  our  reason,  our  commonsense  and 
our  desire  for  justice,  are  radically  opposed. 

The  sordid,  petty,  and  ambitious  Madame  Fourchambault, 
Fourchambault,  Bernard  and  his  mother,  are  synthetic  figures, 
types  of  humanity  at  large,  thrust  into  the  midst  of  social  drama. 

Emile  Augier  was  great  as  an  observer  of  the  society  of 
his  time.  Weary  of  the  conventional,  romantic,  superannuated 
drama  of  his  day,  of  religious  and  historical  themes,  he  preferred 
to  treat  those  questions  which  the  life  of  his  time  furnishes  every 
day  to  the  dramatist. 

The  powers  of  good  and  evil  have  since  Augier's  day  changed 
in  the  matter  of  terminology,  together  with  the  methods  of  treat- 
ing them  as  material  for  drama.  He  was  among  the  first  to 
realise  that  an  individual  face  to  face  with  questions  of  physiolog- 
ical and  social  heredity  was  quite  as  poignant  a  subject  for  study 
as  was  the  legendary  hero  pursued  by  the  anankje  of  antiquity;  so 
that  the  plays  of  the  present  are  more  attractive  to  us  than  those 
of  early  times  by  reason  of  the  interest  aroused  by  the  discussions 
to  which  they  give  rise,  discussions  which  we  can  immediately 
assimilate  and  allow  to  react  upon  our  consciousness  as  living 
beings. 

Such  then  are  the  questions  treated  in  the  plays  of  Emile 
Augier  which  this  volume  offers  to  the  American  public.  I  am 
delighted,  Monsieur,  to  join  you  in  rendering  homage  to  the  lit- 
erary memory  of  a  master  whom  I  consider  one  of  the  greatest 
of  that  line  in  which  I  am  proud  and  happy  to  consider  myself 
as  a  dramatist  and  French  writer. 

Yours,  etc, 

Brieux. 


INTRODUCTION 

EMILE  AUGIER 

THE  present  volume  is  the  first  attempt  to  make  known  in 
English  something  of  the  rich  and  varied  genius  of  one  of 
the  ablest  and  most  influential  dramatists  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  Up  to  the  present,  Emile  Augier  has  been 
accessible  to  readers  of  English  only  through  translations  of 
two  plays,  while  among  the  rare  studies  of  the  subject  in  our 
language  the  only  one  that  pretends  to  any  sort  of  completeness 
is  the  illuminating  and  sympathetic  essay  by  Professor 
Brander  Matthews  in  his  "French  Dramatists  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century." 

The  first  three  plays,  here  translated  for  the  first  time,  are 
typical  of  three  separate  and  distinct  manners  of  their  author; 
the  fourth  is  a  delicate  and  amusing  trifle,  serving  to  show  rather 
what  he  could  do  in  an  odd  moment  than  to  stand  for  a  different 
phase  of  his  work.  One  of  these  is  an  acknowledged  masterpiece 
of  the  nineteenth  century  drama:  "Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier" 
is  indubitably  one  of  the  finest  comedies  since  Moliere,  and 
rightly  holds  a  place  of  honour  in  the  repertory  of  the  Comedie 
Frangaise  with  "Tartufe"  and  "Le  Mariage  de  Figaro."  "Les 
Fourchambault,"  too,  with  its  plea  for  family  solidarity,  its 
commonsense,  its  quiet  and  reasoned  optimism,  is  still  deservedly 
a  favourite  in  France.  "Le  Mariage  d'Olympe"  is  not  often 
played,  but  its  position  in  French  drama,  its  historical  impor- 
tance, its  significance  as  a  social  document,  containing  as  it  does 
a  challenge  to  romantic  ideas  about  the  "rehabilitation  of  the 
courtesan,"  entitle  it  to  a  position  of  high  honour. 

A  volume  which  aimed  at  including  all  the  important  and 
typical  plays  of  Augier  would  be  three  or  four  times  the  size  of 


xii  INTRODUCTION 


the  present,  which  seeks  only  to  introduce  three  of  the  best  of 
his  plays. 

There  is  so  much  matter  in  the  dramatic  works  of  Augier 
which  does  not  properly  fall  within  the  scope  of  the  theatre,  that 
the  casual  reader  may  infer,  incorrectly,  that  Augier  was  more 
of  a  social  reformer  and  champion  of  home  and  fatherland,  than 
a  man  of  the  theatre.  True  it  is  that  in  practically  all  his  plays 
he  attacks  some  form  of  social  or  political  corruption,  and  stands 
forth  to  do  battle  in  behalf  of  the  domestic  virtues.  He  con- 
demns political  trickery,  he  aims  his  shafts  at  the  prostitute 
regaled  as  a  wife  and  mother,  trying  to  break  her  way  into  the 
homes  and  families  of  the  respectable;  he  ruthlessly  flays  all 
forms  of  marital  infidelity,  and  fearlessly  enters  the  arena  in 
questions  of  divorce  and  marriage  —  but  with  all  this,  he  is 
primarily  a  dramatist.  His  works  are  plays,  as  time  has  proved. 
Augier  does  not  however  take  a  subject  at  hazard,  as  Pinero  often 
does,  and  then  write  a  play;  nor  does  he,  as  is  usual  with  his 
disciple  Brieux,  write  his  play  to  fit  a  thesis:  his  themes  evolve 
naturally  out  of  the  fable,  with  the  apparent  unconsciousness  of 
art.  He  is  deeply  concerned  with  the  vices  and  virtues  of 
mankind,  but  rarely  does  he  allow  his  convictions  to  warp  the 
dramatic  texture  of  his  plays.  Rarely,  too,  is  he  so  fearlessly 
didactic  as  his  fellow-playwright  Dumas  fils.  Augier  has  been 
compared  with  Moliere;  but  it  is  only  as  a  man  of  the  theatre 
and  a  painter  of  character  that  the  analogy  holds. 

Augier's  debut  was  made  with  a  graceful  comedy  in  two  acts: 
"La  Cigiie"  (1844).  This  is  in  verse,  and  recounts  the  story  of 
a  repentant  debauchee.  His  next  play,  "Un  Homme  de  bien" 
(1 845),  likewise  in  verse,  in  spite  of  its  hesitancy  in  the  develop- 
ment of  plot  and  the  delineation  of  character,  indicates  the  path 
which  Augier  was  to  tread;  here  he  "manifests  for  the  first  time 
his  intention  to  paint  a  picture  of  contemporary  life,  attack  the 
customs  of  the  day,  in  short,  to  write  a  social  comedy."  ^ 

But  Augier  did  not   at  once  adopt  and  develop  his  new 

^  Henry  Gaillard  de  Champris;  "  Emile  Augier  et  la  Comedie  sociale " 
(Grasset,  Paris.  1910). 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 


manner.  During  the  next  few  years,  he  continued  to  write 
verse  plays  in  which  the  thesis  was  more  or  less  prominent. 

"L'Aventuriere"  (1848),  "Gabrielle"  (1849),  "Le  Joueur 
de  Flute"  (1850),  "Diane"  (1852).  "Philiberte"  (1853),  and 
"Paul  Forestier"  (1868)  are  primarily  comedies  in  which  the 
purely  dramatic  element  predominates,  although  "L'Aven- 
turiere" and  "Gabrielle"  are  a  closer  approximation  to  the  later 
manner  than  the  others. 

"L'Aventuriere"  is  a  modern  play  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  scene  is  laid  in  the  Italian  Renaissance.  It  is  the  story 
of  an  adventuress  who  has  managed  to  get  into  the  good  graces 
of  a  rich  merchant  of  Padua.  He  is  about  to  give  up  friends 
and  family  for  the  woman,  when  his  son,  who  has  been  away  for 
ten  years,  appears  upon  the  scene.  Assuming  a  disguise,  he 
reveals  the  true  character  of  Clorinde  to  his  father  and  effects  a 
breaking-off  of  their  relationship.  The  father  and  family  are 
saved  and  the  repentant  woman  goes  into  a  convent. 

If  in  "L'Aventuriere"  Augier  was  still  undecided  as  to  the 
means  of  expression  best  fitted  to  his  temperament  or  as  to  the 
purpose  to  which  his  powers  were  to  be  put,  in  "Le  Manage 
d'Olympe,"  six  years  later,  he  found  his  most  forceful  and 
realistic  manner.  Meantime  there  is  one  play,  forming  a 
connecting  link  between  the  wavering  "  Ad venturiere "  and 
"Olympe."  "Gabrielle"  (1849)  is,  in  spite  of  its  poetic  form, 
a  realistic  play.  The  husband  who  labours  hard  for  wife  and 
family,  the  wife  who  is  bored  and  seeks  a  fuller  "realisation  of 
self"  in  the  husband's  friend  —  this  is  a  familiar  situation.  But 
it  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  a  serious  treatment  of  such  a 
story  was,  sixty-five  years  ago,  something  of  a  departure. 
Scribe's  stock  in  trade  was  the  menage  a  trois,  but  conjugal  in- 
fidelity with  him  was  always  a  subject  for  comedy.  Augier's 
play  then  was  a  challenge,  both  to  the  Romanticists  and  the 
Vaudevillistes.  When  Julien  Chabriere  opens  the  eyes  of  his 
wife  and  her  would-be  lover  to  the  dangers  and  miseries  of  their 
projected  step,  the  lover  goes  away  and  Gabrielle,  falling  to  her 
knees  before  her  husband,  speaks  the  celebrated  line: 


xlv  INTRODUCTION 


"0  pere  de  famille!     0  poete,  je  t'aime!" 

Leaving  the  realm  of  poetic  comedy,  with  its  attached 
"moral"  and  more  or  less  optimistic  denouement,  in  1854  Augier 
threw  the  gauntlet  in  the  face  of  the  Romanticists  who  applauded 
Dumas  fils'  "La  Dame  aux  camelias"  — commonly  known  in 
Elnglish  as  "Camille."  A  curious  change  in  public  taste  and 
manners  had  allowed  large  numbers  of  demi-mondaines  to  assume 
a  place  of  distinction  and  honour  in  the  socicd  life  of  the  day. 
This  was  due  perhaps  to  the  numerous  political  transformations 
which  France  was  at  the  time  undergoing,  as  well  as  the  spreading 
of  the  ideas  of  the  Romantic  school  of  art  and  literature.  When, 
in  1852,  Dumas  fils  made  a  prostitute  the  sympathetic  heroine 
of  a  play,  and  brought  forward  the  doctrine  that  "she  will  be 
forgiven  because  she  has  loved  deeply,"  a  feeling  of  revolt 
awoke  in  the  breast  of  Augier,  and  he  wrote  "Le  Manage 
d'Olympe."  This  is  one  of  the  most  directly  didactic  of  all  his 
works:  it  was  aimed  primarily  against  the  "reign  of  the  courte- 
san." He  says,  in  short,  that  such  women  as  Olympe  Taverny 
do  undoubtedly  exist,  that  the  men  are  at  fault  as  much  as  the 
women  for  that  fact;  possibly  he  even  secretly  sympathises  with 
her,  but  he  denies  her  the  right  to  marry  into  good  families. 
When  the  Marquis  de  Puygiron  shoots  Olympe,  after  endeavour- 
ing to  force  her  to  give  up  the  family  name  which  she  has  stolen, 
declaring  that  "God  is  his  judge,"  Augier  issues  his  ultimatum 
on  the  question. 

"Le  Manage  d'Olympe,"  a  play  with  a  purpose,  stands  apart 
from  the  great  mass  of  Augier's  plays.  In  the  three  short  and 
well  built  acts,  the  author  has  merely  sketched  his  characters: 
every  effort  has  been  bent  on  the  idea,  the  facts,  the  thesis.  Just 
so  much  of  characterisation  as  is  needed  to  carry  the  story  is 
given.  The  admirable  and  disgusting  scene  which  closes  the 
second  act  is  one  of  the  most  trenchant  and  poignant  which  ever 
came  from  this  dramatist's  pen.  Nowadays,  even  after  Zola 
and  Becque  and  the  Theatre  Libre  dramatists,  it  strikes  a 
note  of  horror.  How  it  must  have  shocked  an  audience  of  the 
'fiftiesi 


INTRODUCTION  xv 


Although  the  play  failed  ^  it  aroused  considerable  discussion 
and  a  good  deal  of  adverse  criticism.  Still,  its  importance  in 
the  dramatic  and  intellectual  development  of  the  dramatist 
was  great.  It  was  his  first  straightforward  declaration  of 
independence.  From  1854  on,  he  followed  the  path  he  had 
himself  opened  with  this  early  play. 

"The  reign  of  the  courtesan"  was  not  ended  by  the  plays 
of  the  day,  but  Augier  did  not  cease  for  that  reason  in  his  at- 
tempts to  check  its  influence.  Twelve  years  after  "Le  Mariage 
d'Olympe"  he  wrote  "La  Contagion."  The  development  of 
society  and  its  relation  to  the  fallen  woman  may  be  clearly 
traced  by  a  comparative  study  of  "L'Aventuriere,"  "Le  Mariage 
d'Olympe,"  and  "La  Contagion."  In  the  first  play,  the  woman 
is  merely  an  exception,  an  adventuress  who  happens  to  "break 
into"  society  and  a  good  family.  In  "Le  Mariage  d'Olympe" 
she  is  a  demi-mondaine  who  has  carefully  planned  to  obtain  for 
herself,  at  any  cost,  a  noble  name.  But  she  is  checked  in  time  — 
by  a  pistol-shot.  Twelve  years  later  the  Olympes  and  Clorindes 
are  no  longer  exceptions;  the  rehabilitated  courtesan  has 
triumphed.  By  skillful  manipulation  she  has  insinuated  her  way 
into  a  position  of  equality  similar  to  that  of  the  respected  mother 
and  wife,  and  has  even  begun  to  corrupt  her.  "The  con- 
sequences" \jA  this  triumph  of  the  courtesan]  says  De  Champris, 
"were  deplorable.  As  a  result  of  hearing  of  these  'ladies,'  of 
reading  about  them  in  the  newspapers,  of  seeing  their  gorgeous 
equipages,  of  passing  their  pretty  homes,  applauding  them  on 
the  stage  or  admiring  their  silhouettes  in  the  fashion  magazines, 
society  women  fell  a  prey  to  contradictory  feelings  and  ideas: 
the  resentment  at  being  occasionally  deserted  for  these  women, 
the  curiosity  to  know  these  enemies,  so  far  away  yet  so  near,  the 
wish  to  rival  them,  furnished  them  with  weapons,  perhaps  even 
a  certain  desire  for  forbidden  fruit,  and  gave  birth  to  a  regret  at 
being  forced  to  pay  for  a  reputation  in  society  which  entailed  so 

^  Due  perhaps  to  the  fact  that  the  public  had  had  enough  of  the  subject: 
"La  Dame  aux  camelias,"  "Les  Filles  de  marbre,"  and  "Le  Demi-monde,"  all 
treated  a  similar  theme. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 


rigid  a  restraint.  For  these  various  reasons,  many  honest  women 
played  the  part  of  demi-mondaines."  This  was  the  contagion 
against  which  Augier  raised  his  voice.  The  clever  and  diabolical 
Navarette,  mistress  of  a  wealthy  man  of  the  world,  succeeds 
in  ruining  her  lover  and  bringing  his  family  to  her  feet.  By 
subtle  manipulation  she  compromises  the  Baron  d'Estrigaud's 
married  sister,  is  witness  of  her  infidelity,  and  finally  succeeds 
in  holding  the  entire  family  at  her  mercy.  A  pistol-shot  will  do 
no  good  here:  the  evil  has  gone  too  far,  society  itself  is  corrupted. 
The  kept  woman,  successfully  rehabilitated,  rich,  held  in  high 
esteem,  has  at  last  attained  that  position  for  which  she  had 
striven. 

The  war  of  1 870  and  the  fall  of  the  Empire  put  a  stop  to  the 
particular  state  of  affairs  which  Augier  had  fought  against. 
Rarely  in  his  later  plays  (except  in  "Jean  de  Thommeray")  did 
he  again  attack  the  question.  To  Brieux  and  Hervieu  and 
Francois  de  Curel  he  left  the  work  of  analysing  deeper  motives 
and  making  a  study  of  the  various  ramifications,  some  of  which 
were  still  invisible  in  Augier's  day  —  but  this  is  current  history. 

The  three  plays  which  have  just  been  discussed  are  sufficient 
to  show  that  Augier  is  the  staunch  champion  of  the  family  and 
the  home.  His  hatred  of  the  prostitute  is  not  so  much  a  matter 
of  personal  feeling  as  a  social  one.  Whether  or  no  he  believes 
in  what  is  now  known  as  segregated  vice  or  whether  as  a  man  he 
was  occasionally  lenient  in  matters  of  sex,  is  beside  the  question: 
he  saw  that  the  home,  of  all  institutions  in  France  the  most 
important,  was  threatened  by  a  fearful  invasion,  and  he  did  his 
best  to  check  it. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Augier's  plays,  so  far  considered,  are 
not  in  chronological  order.  "L'Aventuriere,"  "Le  Mariage 
d'Olympe,"  and  "La  Contagion,"  have  been  grouped  together  for 
the  purpose  of  observing  a  particular  trend  in  the  thought  of  the 
author.  Meantime,  such  widely  different  plays  as  "  Philiberte," 
"La  Pierre  de  touche,"  "Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier,"  and  "Les 
Effrontes,"  made  their  appearance. 

"Gabrielle"  was  the  first  play  to  treat  of  a  more  insidious 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 


evil,  a  greater  danger  to  the  home  which  Augier  was  ever  so 
eager  to  protect:  conjugal  infidelity.  After  the  comparatively 
timid  "Gabrielle"  came  "Les  Lionnes  pauvres"  (1858),  which 
stands  in  much  the  same  relation  to  the  earHer  play  as  "Le 
Mariage  d'Olympe"  did  to  "L'Aventuriere."  Here  again  is 
the  story  of  a  woman  whom  the  love  of  luxury,  too  much  idleness 
and  a  natural  penchant,  lead  to  take  a  lover.  The  honest  and 
industrious  husband  is  long  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  fact,  believ- 
ing that  his  wife's  expensive  clothes  are  paid  for  out  of  her  sav- 
ings. Besides  being  deceived,  in  the  French  sense  of  the  word, 
he  is  being  partially  supported  meantime  by  his  wife's  lover. 
At  last  he  learns  the  facts,  and  is  even  willing  to  forgive  his  wife, 
but  when  she  declares  her  unwillingness  to  restore  the  money 
given  her,  on  the  ground  that  she  is  "afraid  of  poverty,"  the  hus- 
band leaves  her.  He  seeks  consolation  in  the  home  of  Therese 
and  Leon  Lecarmier.  Then  Therese  is  forced  to  tell  him  that 
her  husband,  Leon,  is  Seraphine's  lover.  Seraphine,  then  going 
the  path  of  least  resistance,  decides  to  remain  a  kept  woman. 
Thenceforth  she  joins  the  ranks  of  Olympe  and  Navarette. 

Augier's  sanity,  his  healthy  attitude  toward  humanity,  his 
belief  in  the  eternal  rightness  of  things,  could  not  long  remain 
obscured  by  the  temporary  pessimism  incident  to  the  writing 
of  "Les  Lionnes  pauvres."  In  1858,  the  same  year,  he  turned  to 
light  comedy,  and  in  "La  Jeunesse"  produced  a  genial  if  some- 
what conventional  play.  In  spite  of  its  thesis — that  money  is 
an  evil,  especially  in  the  case  where  young  people  are  forced  into 
marriages  of  convenience  —  it  can  scarcely  be  classed  among  the 
important  social  plays.     It  marks  a  return  to  the  earlier  manner. 

The  question  of  money,  lightly  touched  upon  in  "La  Jeu- 
nesse," is  the  second  of  the  important  problems  which  is  inti- 
mately concerned  with  the  welfare  of  the  family  and  the  home. 
From  this  time  on,  sex  and  money  are  to  assume  a  position  in 
the  front  rank  of  Augier's  work. 

Closely  allied  in  spirit  with  "La  Jeunesse"  is  "Un  beau 
Mariage"  (1859).  The  question.  Should  a  poor  man  marry 
a  rich  wife,  is  handled  with  keen  insight  and  answered  in  the 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 


negative.  Pierre  Chambaud,  a  poor  young  chemist,  marries 
the  rich  Clementine  Bernier,  whose  mother,  possessing  nearly 
all  the  money,  literally  supports  the  daughter  and  her  husband. 
Pierre  soon  becomes  a  mere  figure-head  in  his  own  house  and,  as 
a  result  of  the  social  ambitions  of  his  wife  and  mother-in-law, 
is  forced  to  give  up  his  scientific  pursuits.  Soon  losing  the  love 
and  respect  of  the  two  women,  he  complains  to  them,  and  is 
made  to  feel  more  keenly  than  ever  the  utter  degradation  of  his 
position.  A  certain  Marquis  de  la  Roche-Pingolley  has  been 
over-assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  Pierre's  mother-in-law.  When 
he  demands  that  the  Marquis  either  marry  Madame  Bernier  or 
cease  his  visits,  he  is  humilated  once  again  by  being  told  by  his 
mother-in-law  that  the  Marquis  is  in  her  home.  Receiving  no 
help  or  sympathy  from  his  wife,  he  goes  to  live  with  his  friend, 
Michel  Ducaine,  and  work  out  an  experiment  which,  if  successful, 
will  revolutionise  science  and  render  him  celebrated.  Fearful 
of  the  scandal  and  inconvenience  of  a  separation,  Clementine 
sends  the  Marquis  to  Pierre  in  order  to  effect  a  reconciliation. 
Pierre  is  willing  to  return  to  his  wife,  but  only  on  the  condition 
that  the  mother-in-law  is  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  Pre- 
paratory to  making  his  final  experiment,  which,  we  are  told, 
will  either  kill  or  make  Pierre  a  successful  man,  he  sends  a  letter 
to  his  wife.  Clementine  arrives  at  the  laboratory  just  in  time 
to  be  with  her  husband  in  the  hour  of  danger.  She  has  somehow 
come  to  see  his  real  worth  and  is  willing  to  sacrifice  comfort  and 
luxury  for  his  sake.  She  hides  during  the  experiment,  and  when 
the  seven  minutes  necessary  for  its  consummation  are  at  an  end 
she  cries  "Saved!"  and  falls  into  Pierre's  arms: 

"Oh,  Pierre,  my  love,  my  life!  .  .  .  We  might  have 
died  together!  .  .  .  But  you  are  given  to  me  again! 
What  happiness!  God  is  good!  How  I  love  you! 
Forgive  me!  I  thought  you  were  a  coward,  I  thought 
you  were  base,  and  I  hated  you!  Now  I  adore  you! 
Oh,  courage,  oh,  genius!  Forgive  your  comrade,  your 
handmaid!" 


INTRODUCTION  xlx 


The  last  act  shows  a  pretty  picture  of  Pierre  and  Clementine 
at  home:  she  is  the  incarnation  of  domesticity,  and  he,  of 
independence  and  happiness.  The  mother-in-law,  distracted 
at  not  being  able  to  help  the  couple,  ends  by  purchasing  Pierre's 
discovery.  The  play's  weakness  is  so  flagrant  as  hardly  to  call  for 
further  comment.  With  so  good  a  theme  the  dramatist  ought 
surely  to  have  developed  a  more  credible  story,  and  sought  a 
more  logical  denouement.  To  begin  with,  his  thesis  was  irre- 
trievably weakened  by  making  Clementine  the  sort  of  woman 
she  was.  If,  during  the  entire  struggle  with  his  wife  and  her 
mother,  Pierre  had  once  received  some  sign  of  sympathy  from 
Clementine,  we  might  have  hoped  and  looked  for  her  ultimate 
change,  but  when,  having  stood  throughout  against  him,  she 
finally  does  go  to  him  and  at  the  risk  of  her  life,  stands  at  his 
side  during  the  experiment,  and  then  —  after  his  experiment 
succeeds  —  falls  into  his  arms,  and  forever  after  mends  his 
clothes,  we  cannot  doubt  that  we  have  to  do  with  melodrama. 

Had  Clementine  at  first  been  in  earnest  and  made  an  honest 
endeavour  to  understand  Pierre  and  then  gradually  been  cor- 
rupted by  her  mother  and  her  mother's  money,  and  eventually 
been  made  to  see  the  good  qualities  in  Pierre,  we  might  have 
believed.     As  it  is,  the  last  two  acts  spoil  the  play. 

Technically,  "Un  beau  Mariage"  is  important.  A  man  of 
science  as  a  serious  stage-figure,  a  hero  in  fact,  was  a  decided 
novelty  in  the  'fifties,  and,  if  the  play  accomplished  nothing 
else,  it  at  least  opened  the  way  for  the  moderns,  and  broadened 
the  field  of  the  theatre.  Possibly  the  doctors  and  other  scientists 
in  the  plays  of  Brieux  and  Hervieu  and  Curel  owe  something  to 
the  earnest  treatment  of  the  chemist  in  this  early  play  of  Augier. 
"Ceinture  doree"  (1855)  is  little  more  than  an  expanded 
fable;  it  might  well  be  termed  "Tainted  Money."  The  rich 
merchant  Roussel  has  an  only  daughter,  Caliste,  who  seeks 
among  numerous  suitors  for  her  hand  one  who  cares  nothing  for 
her  money.  Finally,  M.  de  Tirelan  makes  his  appearance,  and 
Roussel  offers  to  make  him  his  son-in-law.  But  Tirelan,  whose 
father  has  been  ruined  in  business  by  Roussel,  and  who  has 


XX  INTRODUCTION 


scruples  against  marrying  for  money,  refuses.  Roussel  swallows 
the  insult,  Tirelan  decides  to  go  away,  and  Roussel  turns  to 
another  suitor,  whom  Caliste  is  about  to  accept  when  she  learns 
that  Tirelan  really  loves  her  and  will  not  ask  for  her  hand  because 
of  her  money.  Meantime,  Roussel  has  been  particularly  sus- 
ceptible to  allusions  to  the  source  of  his  fortune,  and  this  suscepti- 
bility finally  assumes  the  form  of  monomania.  Once  again 
Roussel  makes  overtures  to  Tirelan  and  offers  to  restore  the 
money  which  he  took  from  the  young  man's  father.  He  is  again 
refused.  The  knot  is  cut  at  last  when  it  is  learned  that  Roussel 
is  ruined  by  unwise  speculation.  Tirelan  is  at  last  free  to  declare 
his  love  to  Caliste;  he  can  marry  her  now  that  the  barrier  of 
fortune  is  removed. 

The  play  is  so  light  that  it  hardly  deserves  a  place  among  the 
serious  plays  of  Augier.  Yet  in  its  own  way  it  stands  as  a  further 
document  upon  the  social  system  in  which  hard  cash  plays  so 
large  and  important  a  role. 

To  turn  from  the  idealistic  and  timid  "Ceinture  doree"  to 
"Les  Effrontes"  (1861)  is  to  realise  in  the  most  forceful  manner 
the  extreme  poles  of  the  genius  of  Emile  Augier.  The  earlier 
play  appears  little  other  than  the  work  of  a  dilettante  beside  the 
later.  "Les  Effrontes"  is  a  compact  yet  varied  picture  of  man- 
ners, in  which  the  principal  portrait  is  the  parvenu  Vernouillet, 
a  vulgar,  unscrupulous  journalist  with  money  and  a  vast  amount 
of  aplomb  —  "nerve."  Respected  by  no  one,  he  is  held  in  fear 
by  all,  for  he  is  influential  and  rich. 

Politically,  socially,  dramatically,  "Les  Effrontes"  is  a  work 
of  the  first  importance.  It  was  the  first  play  to  treat  in  a  real- 
istic manner  the  power  of  the  press  and  paint  a  truly  modern 
villain.  Says  Vernouillet:  "  I  have  put  my  money  to  the  only 
use  to  which  it  has  not  hitherto  been  put:  making  public  opinion. 
I  have  in  my  hands  the  two  powers  which  the  Empire  has  always 
disputed:  money  and  the  press!  Each  helps  the  other.  I  open  up 
new  roads  to  them;  I  am  in  fact  making  a  revolution."  Although 
"Les  Effrontes"  is  at  the  same  time  a  comedy  of  character  and 
manners  with  a  complicated  intrigue  and  a  love  story,  it  weis 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 


in  its  day  considered  mainly  as  an  attack  on  the  press.  But 
what  was  not  realised  so  clearly  in  the  many  heated  discussions 
aroused  by  the  piece,  was  that  Augier  was  not  so  much  concerned 
with  the  actual  state  of  the  press  —  which  was  and  is  bad 
enough  —  but  with  the  power  which  the  press,  backed  by  money, 
may  exert.     His  purpose  was  larger,  for  it  was  humanitarian. 

Once  again  he  enlarged  the  scope  of  the  theatre,  and  gave 
the  stage  a  figure  which  is  today  one  of  the  most  familiar  and 
oftenest  used. 

In  several  of  Augier's  plays  there  is  a  mingling  of  themes 
which,  while  it  adds  to  the  atmosphere  and  interest,  often 
renders  any  distinct  classification  of  genres,  a  difficult  task. 
"Money,"  "Sex,"  "Politics,"  and  such-like  more  or  less  arbitrary 
headings  are  not  sufficient  to  cover  more  than  half  of  Augier's 
plays.  "Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier,"  for  example,  is  a  comedy 
of  character,  as  well  as  a  comedy  of  sentiment,  a  picture  of  the 
nobility  and  the  bourgeoisie,  and  a  study  of  the  money  question. 
"La  Pierre  de  louche"  (1853)  and  "Maitre  Guerin"  (1865), 
although  they  are  not  so  unified  as  "Le  Mariage  d'Olympe," 
may  still  be  satisfactorily  classified  under  the  heading  of 
"Money."  The  first  is  another  of  those  lighter  plays  with 
"morals";  it  shows  the  evil  results  of  the  acquisition  of  large 
sums  of  money  by  those  who  do  not  know  its  proper  uses;  the 
second  is  an  interesting  study  in  the  character  of  a  bourgeois 
merchant. 

"Les  Effrontes"  has  been  classed  among  the  works  of  Augier 
in  which  money  was  shown  to  be  at  the  base  of  a  great  part  of 
the  evils  of  the  social  system.  It  is  likewise  one  of  the  three 
political  plays,  of  which  the  others  are  "Le  Fils  de  Giboyer" 
and  "Lions  et  Renards." 

"Le  Fils  de  Giboyer"  (1862)  was  for  the  French  of  the  day 
what  was  called  an  "Anticlerical"  play.  The  Jesuits  as  politi- 
cians were  attacked,  or    believed    themselves  to  be,^  so  that 

^  In  his  preface  to  "Le  Fils  de  Giboyer"  Augier  says:  "  In  spite  of  what  has 
been  affirmed,  this  comedy  is  not  a  poHtical  piece  in  the  current  sense  of  the  term: 
it  is  a  social  play.     It  attacks  and  defends  only  ideas,  abstract  conceptions  of  all 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 


national  discussions  and  conflicts  arose,  bitter  counter-attack' 
made  on  the  author  and  what  was  supposed  to  be  his  party. 
Augier  denies  (see  the  foot-note)  that  his  play  is  political;  he 
declares  that  it  deals  with  society  in  a  general  way.  As  a  story 
of  father  and  son  it  indubitably  suffers  from  what  now  appears 
as  a  great  deal  of  topical  and  contemporaneous  discussion,  but 
that  is  rather  the  fault  of  the  times  and  of  the  subject.  The 
clever  but  unscrupulous  bohemian  scribbler,  Giboyer  —  who, 
together  with  his  protector  D'Auberive,  was  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal characters  in  "Les  Effrontes",  —  has  sold  himself  to  the 
rich  Marquis.  Through  political  intrigues,  hypocrisy,  venality 
of  the  basest  kind,  Giboyer  makes  his  way,  until  at  last  through 
his  love  for  his  son,  his  designated  successor,  he  undergoes  a 
moral  "rehabilitation."  The  psychology  of  the  transformation 
may  be  true  enough,  and  would  doubtless  have  been  more 
credible  had  it  been  developed  at  greater  length  by  a  novelist  like 
Balzac  or  George  Eliot,  but  somehow  we  cannot  believe  in  the 
sudden  change,  and  are  prone  to  ask  how  it  happens  that  Giboyer 
can  be  redeemed  by  love  for  his  son  any  more  than  could  Olympe 
because  Henri  once  loved  her. 

"Lions  et  Renards"  (1869)  is  valuable  and  historically  in- 
teresting as  a  comedy  of  manners  and  character.  It  is  another 
attack  on  the  Jesuits.  But  the  complicated  intrigue,  the 
occasional  obscurity  of  the  motivation,  were  sufficient  to  account 
for  the  failure  of  the  play. 

Augier  realized,  as  Balzac  did,  that  money  was  the  root  of 
much  evil,  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  social  readjustments  which 
France  was  undergoing  in  the  nineteenth  century,  he  made  one 
of  the  greatest  of  his  protagonists.  In  the  struggle  between  the 
classes,  in  the  personal  relationship  of  the  family,  the  race  for 
money  and  power  was  almost  always  the  prime  reason  for  social 
degradation  and  disintegration.  Social  position  is  mainly  a 
question  of  money.     Olympe  Taverny  attempted  to  climb,  and 

sorts  of  government.  .  .  .  The  antagonism  between  the  old  and  modem  prin- 
ciples, that,  in  brief,  is  the  theme  of  the  play.  I  defy  anyone  to  find  a  single 
word  to  warrant  the  assumption  that  I  have  gone  beyond  this." 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 


tJse  family  suffered;  Gabrielle's  husband  was  forced  to  spend  the 
lime  he  should  have  had  with  his  wife,  in  earning  the  money  he 
thought  was  supporting  her;  marriages  of  love  and  inclination 
are  forced  to  give  way  before  marriages  of  convenience,  which 
means  ruin  for  the  home  and  the  family;  the  press  and  the 
Church  strive  for  power,  political  and  financial  —  the  very  basis 
and  sinews  of  politics  is  cash.  France,  says  Augier,  is  money- 
mad,  and  a  nation  which  forgets  what  is  of  supreme  importance 
—  family  and  home  and  the  virtues  of  old  —  is  heading  for 
destruction. 

The  remaining  important  plays  are  all  more  or  less  concerned 
with  money;  sometimes  it  hovers  in  the  background,  is  only 
apprehended;  sometimes  it  is  obscured  by  other  considerations, 
but  it  is  always  present. 

"Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier"  (1855),  written  in  collabora- 
tion with  Jules  Sandeau,  is  without  doubt  one  of  the  finest 
comedies  of  character  ever  written.  The  figure  of  the  "bon- 
homme"  Poirier  is  one  of  the  greatest  in  the  realm  of  dramatic 
literature.  In  this  play  Augier  was  less  concerned  with  social 
considerations  than  was  his  wont,  although  money  again  is  the 
basis  of  the  action.  The  Marquis  de  Presles,  a  ruined  member 
of  the  aristocracy,  has  in  a  way  entered  into  a  business  pact  with 
Poirier,  but  the  business  dealings  of  the  two  have  been  utilised 
by  the  authors  chiefly  as  a  frame  in  which  to  depict  and  contrast 
the  nobleman  and  the  bourgeois.  The  plot  is  of  necessity  rather 
thin:  character  is  the  important  consideration. 

The  last  three  important  plays  of  Augier,  written  after  the 
war,  might  possibly  be  classified  under  the  general  headings 
which  we  have  so  far  been  using,  but  each,  by  reason  of  a  com- 
parative novelty  of  theme,  may  well  be  placed  apart  in  different 
categories.  The  plays  in  question  are  "Jean  de  Thommeray," 
"Madame  Caverlet,"  and  "Les  Fourchambault."  Besides 
these,  there  is,  however,  "Le  Prix  Martin,"  written  in  collabora- 
tion with  Eugene  Labiche,  a  conventional  and  amusing  little 
comedy. 

"Jean  de  Thommeray"  (1873)  —  written  with  Jules  Sandeau, 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 


whose  novel  of  the  same  name  was  used  as  a  basis  —  is  a  patri- 
otic piece,  in  which  a  young  aristocrat,  succumbing  to  the  de- 
moraHsing  influences  of  the  capital,  finally  redeems  himself 
by  fighting  for  the  Patrie.  The  value  of  the  play  lies  rather  in 
the  separate  pictures  of  the  life  of  the  aristocratic  De  Thom- 
merays,  than  in  the  story.  Jean's  redemption  is  not  very  satis- 
factorily explained,  while  the  plot  is  loose  and  our  interest 
consequently  wavering. 

"Mademie  Caverlet"  (1876)  is  a  strong  and  passionate  plea 
for  divorce.  Again  it  points  out  an  evil  in  the  social  system 
which  militates  against  the  good  of  the  family.  Sir  Edward 
Merson  and  his  wife  have  been  separated  for  a  number  of  years. 
She  has  found  consolation  in  the  upright  and  honourable  M. 
Caverlet,  with  whom,  and  her  two  children,  she  has  been  living 
in  what  is  all  but  a  legal  status  of  marriage.  When  the  daughter, 
however,  is  about  to  marry,  Caverlet  and  "Madame"  Caverlet 
confess  to  the  suitor's  father  the  truth  of  the  case,  and  the  pro- 
posed marriage  is  broken  off  without  delay.  Merson  then 
appears,  demands  his  son  and  daughter,  forces  Caverlet  to  go 
away,  and  ends  by  breaking  up  the  family  until  he  is  offered  a 
large  sum  of  money  to  go  to  Switzerland  and  there  become  a 
citizen.  This  ameliorates  the  situation,  as  the  wife  can  then 
obtain  a  divorce  and  become  the  lawful  wife  of  Caverlet.  But 
Henri,  the  son,  completely  disillusioned,  joins  the  army  and  goes 
to  a  foreign  country.     The  marriage  then  takes  place. 

We  cannot  but  feel  that  Augier's  case  would  have  been 
stronger  had  he  not  loaded  the  dice.  If  Merson  had  really  cared 
more  for  his  wife  than  for  her  money,  and  had  he  insisted  on 
his  "rights,"  then  the  injustice  of  the  law  and  its  bitter  conse- 
quences would  have  been  more  strikingly  proved.  Had  Augier, 
as  Hervieu  did  in  "La  Loi  de  I'homme,"  pushed  his  thesis  to 
its  logical  conclusion,  we  should  have  had  a  more  touchingly 
poignant  play,  as  well  as  a  stronger  plea  for  divorce. 

"Les  Fourchambault "  (1878)  is  the  last  play  of  Emile  Augier. 
In  structure,  in  character  analysis,  it  shows  no  diminution  in 
the  dramatist's  powers;    it  is  indeed  a  proof  of  his  deepening 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 


sympathy  and  broader  understanding  of  human  life,  it  shows  a 
brighter  optimism  and  a  more  deep-rooted  belief  in  the  basic 
goodness  of  humanity.  Viewed  from  a  strictly  logical  angle, 
the  play  may  seem  reactionary  if  not  contradictory,  yet  the 
young  man  in  the  early  'fifties  denouncing  the  fallen  Olympes 
and  Navarettes,  had  with  increasing  years  come  to  realise  that 
there  were  exceptions  in  life,  that  human  nature  cannot  always 
be  evil.  Leaving  aside  particular  questions  of  the  day,  wishing 
to  attack  no  specific  institution,  law,  or  social  wrong,  he  bases 
his  play  on  human  frailty  and  human  goodness,  infusing  the 
whole  with  a  generous  portion  of  good  and  kindly  humour  and 
gentle  satire.  Madame  Fourchambault  is  after  all  only  silly 
and  weak,  not  criminally  ambitious  or  vicious.  Leopold,  too, 
is  weak,  like  his  father,  and  not  wicked.  Madame  Bernard, 
though  she  once  sinned,  has  redeemed  her  error  by  a  life  of  ser- 
vice. Marie  and  Bernard  are  almost  too  good.  If  a  criticism 
may  be  urged,  it  is  that  the  play  is  too  kindly  and  optimistic. 
Bernard's  and  Marie's  rhapsody  on  marriage  is  a  little  too  much 
like  a  sermon.  This  play  is  Augier's  idealistic  swansong.  It 
seems,  that,  tired  of  attacking,  worn  out  by  the  sight  of  vice 
and  stupidity,  he  was  prompted,  in  his  old  age,  to  raise  up  an 
ideal  of  virtue,  and  make  that  ideal  triumph  over  evil. 

Augier  is  the  Balzac  of  the  French  stage  of  the  last  century: 
his  power  of  observation,  his  commonsense,  his  straightforward 
and  honest  way  of  speaking  the  truth,  the  great  extent  and 
variety  of  his  work,  bring  him  into  closer  relationship  with  the 
great  novelist  than  any  other  dramatist  of  his  time.  Considered 
as  a  moralist  or  social  reformer,  as  exponent  of  the  domestic 
virtues,  as  champion  of  the  fireside,  he  is  of  great  importance,  but 
as  a  painter  of  the  life  of  his  time,  of  the  bourgeoisie  as  well  as 
of  the  aristocracy,  as  a  literary  artist  depicting  living  men  and 
women,  he  occupies  a  position  in  French  literature  and  drama 
as  sure,  though  possibly  not  so  exalted,  as  that  of  Moliere  or 
Balzac. 


Biographical  Note. —  Emile  Augier  was  born  in  1 820.  He  once  said  that  his 
life  was  devoid  of  events.  His  first  play,  produced  in  1844,  met  with  considerable 
success,  and  was  followed,  not  long  after,  with  a  series  of  plays  which  brought  him 
first  esteem  and  finally  fame.  For  nearly  thirty-five  years  he  continued  to  put 
forth  plays  at  regular  and  frequent  intervals.  Respected  and  beloved  in  his 
country,  he  died  in  1 889. 


PLAYS  BY  EMILE  AUGIER 

La  Cigue  1844 

Un  Homme  de  bien  1845 

L' Aventuriere  1 848 

Gabrielle  1849 

Le  Joueur  de  Flute  1850 

Diane  1852 

Philiberte  1853 

La  Pierre  de  louche  1853 

Le  Mariage  d'Olympe  1854 

Ceinture  doree  1855 

Le  Gendre  de  M.  Poirier  1855 

(In  collaboration  with  Jules  Sandeau) 

La  Jeunesse  1 858 

Les  Lionnes  pauvres  1858 

Un  beau  Mariage  1859 

Les  Eflrontes  1861 

Le  Fils  de  Giboyer  1862 

Maitre  Guerin  1865 

La  Contagion  1866 

Paul  Forestier  1868 

Lions  et  Renards  1869 

Jean  de  Thommeray  1 873 

(In  collaboration  with  Jules  Sandeau) 

Madame  Caverlet  1876 

Le  Prix  Martin  1877 

(In  collaboration  with  Eugene  Labiche) 

Les  Fourchambault  1878 

La  Chasse  au  Roman  (1851),  written  in  collaboration  with  Jules  Sandeau,  is 
not  included  in  the  "Theatre  complet."  L'Habit  vert,  in  collaboration  with 
Alfred  de  Musset,  and  Le  Post-scriptum,  are  one-act  plays. 

Le  Fils  de  Giboyer  —  as  the  Son  of  Giboyer  —  is  to  be  found  in  translation 
in  The  Universal  Anthology,  also,  translated  by  Benedict  Papot,  in  The  Drama, 
no.  2.  L'Habit  vert  is  translated  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  in  The  World's  Best 
Plays  Series  (Samuel  French);  likewise  Le  Post-scriptum  (as  The  Green  Coat 
and  The  Post-scriptum). 

xxvii 


REFERENCES 

FRENCH: 

L6opold  Lacour,  "Trois  Th6itres."     1880. 
Edouard  Pailleron,  "Emile  Augier."     1889. 
Parigot,  "Emile  Augier."     1890. 
Antoine  Benoist,  "Essais  de  critique." 

Henri   Gaillard   de   Champris,   "Emile   Augier   et  la   comedie  sociale.' 
1910.     (G>ntains  an  extensive  bibliography.) 

ENGLISH: 

Brander  Matthews,  "French   Dramatists  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.' 

Scribner's. 
W.  N.  Guthrie,  in  "The  Drama,"  no.  2. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

(LE  MARIAGE   D'OLYMPE) 
A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

MARQUIS  DE  PUYGIRON. 

HENRI  DE  PUYGIRON. 

BARON  DE  MONTRICHARD. 

BAUDEL  DE  BEAUSfijOUR. 

ADOLPHE. 

MARQUISE  DE  PUYGIRON. 

GENEVIEVE  DE  WURZEN. 

PAULINE. 

IRMA. 

The  scene  of  the  first  act  is  laid  at  Pilnitz,  and  that  of  the  second  and 
third  acts  in  the  home  of  the  MARQUIS  DE  PUYGIRON,  at 
Vienna. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 
ACT  I 

The  scene  is  the  conversation-room  at  Pilnitz,  a  watering-place. 
There  are  three  large  arched  entrances  at  the  lacli,  opening 
upon  a  garden;   a  divan  is  in  the  centre;   to  the  right  stands  a 
table  with  numerous  newspapers  on  it;   to  the  left  is  a  small 
tea-table. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  the  MARQUIS  DE  PUYGIRON  is  seated  by  the 
table  to  the  left,  MONTRI CHARD  on  the  divan,  facing  the  audi- 
ence;  BAUDEL  DE  BEAUSfijOUR  is  likewise  on  the  divan,  but 
only  his  legs  are  seen  by  the  audience. 
MONTRICHARD.      \_Reading  his  guide-book"]      "Pilnitz,  nine 
kilometres   south-east   of   Dresden,   summer   residence   of   the 
Court.      Castle  .  .  .  Natural    waters  .  .  .  Magnificent    baths 
.  .  .  Casino  .  .  ."       \_Throwing  down  the  hool(\      Palpitating 
with  interest,  that  little  book! 

MARQUIS.  Tell  me,  M.  de  Montrichard  —  you  are  a  great 
authority  on  modern  France  —  who  is  Mile.  Olympe  Taverny? 
An  actress? 

MONTRICHARD.  No,  M.  le  Marquis,  she  is  one  of  the  most 
luxuriously  and  frequently  kept  women  in  Paris.  How  does 
it  happen  that  her  fame  has  reached  Pilnitz? 

MARQUIS.      The  Constitutionnel  announces  her  death. 
MONTRICHARD.      Is  that  possible?      A  girl  of  twenty-five! 
Poor  Olympe! 

BAUDEL.      {^Rising  from  behind  the  divan]      Is  Olympe  dead? 
MONTRICHARD.      \^After  looking  for  the  person  who  is  speak- 
ing.]     Did  Monsieur  know  her? 

BAUDEL.  [^Embarrassed]  Just  as  —  everyone  did  —  hm 
■ —  yes,  very  well. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 


MONTRICHARD.      What  was  the  cause  of  her  death? 

MARQUIS.  Here's  the  item:  [//e  readsJi  "Our  California 
correspondent  writes,  'Yellow  fever  has  just  claimed  as  its 
victim  one  of  the  most  charming  of  our  young  compatriots. 
Mile.  Olympe  Taverny.  A  week  after  her  arrival  in  San 
Francisco  she  met  her  death.' " 

MONTRICHARD.  What  the  devil  was  she  doing  in  Cali- 
fornia?     She  had  an  income  of  ten  thousand  francs! 

BAUDEL.      Which  she  must  have  lost  in  investments. 

MONTRICHARD.  [lo  the  MARQUIS]  It  has  always  seemed 
to  me  the  most  cruel  injustice  that  these  happy  young  creatures 
should  be  exposed  to  so  serious  an  accident  as  death,  the  same  as 
honest  women  are. 

MARQUIS.  That  is  the  only  possible  way  for  them  to  make 
regular  their  position  in  society.  But  what  surprises  me  is  that 
the  papers  give  her  long  death-notices. 

MONTRICHARD.  \^At  the  right  of  the  table']  You  have  been 
away  from  France  for  some  time,  have  you  not,  M.  le  Marquis? 

MARQUIS.      Since  the  Vendee—  1832. 

MONTRICHARD.  There  have  been  great  changes  in  twenty- 
two  years. 

MARQUIS.  So  I  imagine:  then  things  were  going  from  bad 
to  worse.  But  —  the  devil!  —  then,  at  least,  there  was  some 
sentiment  of  public  modesty. 

MONTRICHARD.  What  can  public  modesty  do  in  the  face 
of  facts?  The  existence  of  this  class  of  women  is  one  of  the 
facts  I  refer  to.  These  women  have  passed  out  of  the  lower 
strata  of  society  and  come  into  the  broad  daylight.  They 
constitute  a  little  world  of  their  own  which  makes  its  orbit  in 
the  rest  of  the  universe.  They  go  about,  give  and  attend 
dances,  have  families,  and  gamble  on  the  Bourse.  Men  don't 
bow  to  them  as  yet  when  they  are  with  mothers  or  sisters,  but 
they  are  none  the  less  taken  to  the  Bois  in  open  carriages;  in 
the  theatre  they  occupy  prominent  boxes  —  and  the  men  are 
not  considered  cynics. 

BAUDEL.      Exactly. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 


MARQUIS.  That's  all  very  curious.  In  my  day  the  boldest 
man  would  never  dream  of  parading  himself  in  that  way! 

MONTRICHARD.  Well,  in  your  day  this  new  social  circle 
was  still  in  the  swamp;  now  it's  dried  up,  if  not  thoroughly 
renovated.  You  used  to  hunt  in  high-top  boots,  buckled  up  to 
the  belt;  now  we  walk  about  in  pumps.  Streets  have  been 
cut  through,  squares,  whole  residential  sections.  Like  the  city 
of  Paris,  society  takes  in  new  suburbs  every  fifty  years.  This 
latest  is  the  Thirteenth  Arrondissement.  Do  you  know,  these 
women  have  so  strong  a  hold  on  the  public  that  they  have  even 
been  made  the  heroines  of  plays? 

MARQUIS.  In  the  theatre?  Women  who—?  And  the 
audience  accepts  that? 

MONTRICHARD.  Without  a  murmur  — which  proves  that 
having  made  their  entree  into  comedy,  they  have  done  likewise 
into  correct  society. 

MARQUIS.      You  could  knock  me  down  with  a  feather! 

MONTRICHARD.  Then  what  have  you  to  say  when  I  tell 
you  that  these  ladies  manage  to  get  married? 

MARQUIS.      To  captains  of  industry? 

MONTRICHARD.      No,  indeed  —  to  sons  of  good  families. 

MARQUIS.      Idiots  of  good  families! 

MONTRICHARD.  No,  no.  The  bane  of  our  day  is  the 
rehabilitation  of  the  lost  woman  —  fallen  woman,  we  say. 
Our  poets,  novelists,  dramatists,  fill  the  heads  of  the  young 
generation  with  romantic  ideas  of  redemption  through  love,  the 
virginity  of  the  soul,  and  other  paradoxes  of  transcendental 
philosophy.  These  young  women  must  become  ladies,  grand 
ladies! 

MARQUIS.      Grand  ladies? 

MONTRICHARD.  Marriage  is  their  final  catch;  the  fish 
must  be  worth  the  trouble,  you  see. 

MARQUIS.  iRising]  Good  God!  And  the  father-in- 
law  doesn't  strangle  a  woman  in  a  case  of  the  sort? 

MONTRICHARD.  \^Also  rising]  What  about  the  law, 
M.  le  Marquis? 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 


BAUDEL  rises  and  wallas  slowly  down-stage  to  the  left. 

MARQUIS.  Devil  take  the  law  then!  If  your  laws  permit 
such  shame  to  fall  upon  good  families,  if  a  common  prostitute 
can  tarnish  the  honour  of  a  whole  family  by  marrying  one  of  its 
drunkard  sons,  it  is  the  father's  right  to  take  his  name  from  the 
thief  of  his  honour,  even  if  it  were  glued  to  her  skin  like  Nessus' 
tunic. 

MONTRICHARD.  That's  rather  a  brutal  form  of  justice  for 
the  present  age,  is  it  not,  M.  le  Marquis? 

MARQUIS.      Possibly,  but  I  am  not  a  man  of  the  present  age. 

BAUDEL.  But,  M.  le  Marquis,  suppose  the  woman  in  ques- 
tion does  not  drag  her  stolen  plumage  in  the  gutter? 

MARQUIS.       I  cannot  admit  the  hypothesis.  Monsieur. 

BAUDEIL.  Is  it  not  possible  that  she  should  like  to  give  up 
her  former  life  and  want  to  lead  a  quiet  and  pure  existence ? 

MARQUIS.  Put  a  duck  on  a  lake  among  swans,  and  you  will 
observe  that  the  duck  regrets  its  mire,  and  will  end  by  returning 
there. 

MONTRICHARD.      Home-sickness  for  the  mud! 

BAUDEL.      Then  you  don't  believe  in  repentant  Magdalens? 

MARQUIS.      I  do  —  in  the  desert. 

The  MARQUISE  and  GENEVlfeVE  come  in  through  an  archway. 

MARQUIS.      Shh!      Messieurs,  beware  of  chaste  ears! 

MONTRICHARD.  And  how  are  Mme.  la  Marquise  and  Mile. 
Genevieve? 

MARQUISE.  Much  better,  thank  you.  Monsieur.  —  Have 
you  seen  the  papers,  dear? 

MARQUIS.      Yes,  dear,  and  I  am  now  at  your  disposal. 

GENEVlfcVE.      No  news  from  Turkey,  grandfather? 

MARQUIS.      No,  my  child. 

MONTRICHARD.  Are  you  interested  in  the  war.  Made- 
moiselle? 

GENEVlfcVE.      I  should  so  like  to  be  a  man  and  fight! 

MARQUISE.      Hush,  child. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 


GENEVl£VE.  I'm  not  so  stupid  —  or  if  I  am,  I  owe  it  to 
you,  grandmother.  —  You  shouldn't  blame  me! 

MARQUISE.  [Tapping  GENEVl£,VE  gently  on  the  cheek,  then 
going  toward  her  husband7\  Coming  to  the  spring,  Tancrede? 
It's  time. 

MARQUIS.  Very  well.  [To  the  other f\  We  invalids  are 
here  to  take  the  waters.  —  My  arm,  Marquise.  And  you  lead 
the  way,  granddaughter.      [To  his  wife^      Sleep  better? 

MARQUISE.      [To  her  husbancQ      Almost  well;   and  you? 

MARQUIS.  So  did  I.  [They  go  out.  MONTRICHARD 
escorts  them  to  the  door  and  returns.'] 

BAUDEL.  [To  MONTRICHARD]  I  am  delighted.  Monsieur, 
to  have  made  your  acquaintance. 

MONTRICHARD.     When  did  I  have  the  honour,  Monsieur ? 

BAUDEL.      Why  —  here  —  just  now 

MONTRICHARD.  The  few  words  we  exchanged  together? 
Good  Lord,  you  are  a  quick  acquaintance-maker! 

BAUDEL.  I  have  known  you  a  long  time,  by  reputation. 
I  have  always  wanted  to  be  counted  among  your  friends. 

MONTRICHARD.  That's  too  good  of  you!  Though  my 
friendship  is  not  a  temple  of  etiquette,  people  do  not  as  a  rule 
enter  it  unannounced,      [^/isif/e]      Who  is  the  fellow? 

BAUDEL.      [Bowing~]      Anatole  de  Beausejour 

MONTRICHARD.      Knight  of  Malta? 

BAUDEL.       I  confess  it. 

MONTRICHARD.  Fifteen  hundred  francs  —  and  what  did 
the  title  of  Beausejour  cost  you? 

BAUDEL.      Two  hundred  thousand  in  land. 

MONTRICHARD.  Dear  enough.  You  deserve  another  —  a 
little  less  expensive. 

BAUDEL.  Ha,  ha!  Good!  Baudel,  Monsieur,  is  my  patro- 
nymic. 

MONTRICHARD.  Baudel?  Just  as  the  Montmorency  were 
called  Bouchard.  I  seem  to  have  heard  your  name  somewhere 
before.  Monsieur.  Didn't  you  apply  for  membership  in  the 
Jockey  Club  last  year? 


8  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

BAUDEL.       I  did. 

MONTRICHARD.  And  you  were  refused  because  you  were  — 
one  moment!  —  because  your  father  was  a  milliner? 

BAUDEL.      He  financed  the  concern:   partner  of  Mile.  Aglae. 

MONTRICHARD.      Partner,  yes.      Well,  Monsieur,  if  I  were 

your  father's  son  I  should  call  myself  merely  Baudel.       It's  no 

disgrace  to  be  bald;  only  when  one  wears  a  wig  does  one  run  the 

risk  of  appearing  ridiculous,  M.  de  Beausejour.      And  so  —  your 

very  humble 

He  is  about  to  leave. 

BAUDEL.  [^Intercepting  Aim]  Monsieur,  the  estate  of 
Beausejour  is  situated  oh  the  road  to  Orleans,  thirty-three 
kilometres  from  Paris.  Could  you  tell  me  where  Montrichard 
lies? 

MONTRICHARD.  [Returning  to  BAUDEL]  Three  imperti- 
nent fellows  have  asked  me  the  same  question.  To  the  first  I 
replied  that  it  was  situated  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne;^  to  the 
second,  in  the  Bois  de  Vincennes;^  to  the  third,  in  the  Forest 
of  St.  Germain.^  I  accompanied  each  of  these  three  sceptics 
to  the  duelling  grounds;  they  returned  convinced  —  grievously 
convinced  —  so  convinced  that  no  one  has  since  dared  repeat 
the  question.  I  trust,  Monsieur,  that  you  no  longer  desire  the 
information? 

BAUDEL.  You  refer  to  pleasure  parties  on  your  estates,  I 
take  it?  You  forget,  perhaps,  that  there  are  other  places  for 
such?    Spa,  Homburg,  Baden,  and  —  Pilnitz! 

MONTRICHARD.      Monsieur  then  insists  on  a  wound? 

BAUDEL.  Yes,  Monsieur,  I  need  one.  I  have  arranged  this 
little  conversation  with  that  end  in  view. 

They  sit  down  at  the  table. 

MONTRICHARD.  Very  well,  M.  Baudel.  But  I  warn  you 
that  you  have  already  an  inch  of  steel  in  your  arm.  Take  good 
care  that  the  weapon  goes  no  deeper! 

^   Famous  places  for  duelling. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 


BAUDEL.  I  am  fully  aware  that  Monsieur  is  the  best  swords- 
man in  Paris.  Your  blade  stands  you  in  good  stead  of  every- 
thing, including  a  genealogy. 

MONTRICHARD.      Two  inches. 

BAUDEL.  Of  an  ambiguous  title,  relying  entirely  upon 
chance.  You  have  by  your  bravado  and  your  cleverness  made 
an  entree  in  the  world  of  fashion  and  high  life;  you  are  even  one 
of  the  leaders  in  that  world,  where  you  always  behave  like  a 
perfect  gentleman:  spending  generously,  never  borrowing  —  a 
good  gambler,  good  comrade,  dead  shot,  and  a  gallant  knight. 

MONTRICHARD.      Three  inches. 

BAUDEL.  Unfortunately,  however,  you  have  recently  lost 
your  luck.  You  are  now  without  a  sou,  and  are  looking  for 
fifty  thousand  francs  with  which  to  tempt  fortune  once  again. 
You  cannot  find  the  money. 

MONTRICHARD.      Five  inches! 

BAUDEL.      I  shall  loan  you  that  amount. 

MONTRICHARD.      Ha! 

BAUDEL.      Now  how  many  inches? 

MONTRICHARD.  That  depends  on  the  conditions  you  make. 
You  have  conditions? 

BAUDEL.      Yes. 

MONTRICHARD.      Speak,  M.  de  Beaus^jour. 

BAUDEL.      It's  quite  simple:    I  should  like 

MONTRICHARD.      What? 

BAUDEL.      The  devil!      It's  not  so  simple  as  it  seemed. 

MONTRICHARD.       I  am  very  intelligent! 

BAUDEL.  Monsieur,  I  have  an  income  of  a  hundred  and 
twenty-three  thousand  francs. 

MONTRICHARD:      You  are  fortunate. 

BAUDEL.  No,  I  am  not.  I  have  received  a  gentleman's 
education  and  I  have  aristocratic  instincts.  My  fortune  and 
my  breeding  call  me  to  the  more  brilliant  realms  of  society  — 

MONTRICHARD.      And  your  birth  stands  in  your  way. 

BAUDEL.  Precisely.  Every  time  I  knock  at  the  door,  it  is 
closed  in  my  face.      In  order  to  enter  and  to  remain,  I  must 


10  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

fight  a  dozen  duels.  Now,  I  am  no  more  of  a  coward  than  the 
average  man,  but  I  have  a  hundred  and  twenty-three  thousand 
reasons  for  wanting  to  live,  while  my  adversary  as  a  rule  would 
have  only  thirty  or  forty  thousand.  It's  not  too  unevenly 
matched. 

MONTRICHARD.  I  understand:  you  want  to  earn  your 
spurs  once  for  all,  and  you  turn  to  me? 

BAUDEL.      That's  it. 

MONTRICHARD.  But,  my  dear  Monsieur,  my  inserting  an 
inch  of  steel  into  your  arm  will  not  prove  that  you're  a  good 
swordsman. 

BAUDEL.      That  is  not  exactly 

MONTRICHARD.      Then  what ? 

BAUDEL.      It's  rather  a  delicate  matter  to  explain. 

MONTRICHARD.      Say  it  out  —  let  us  be  frank. 

BAUDEL.      You  are  right:   I  propose  a  bargain. 

MONTRICHARD.  For  what?  You  remind  me  of  a  bottle 
of  that  sort  of  champagne  that  takes  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
blow  the  cork  out!      Good  God,  man,  ask  for  a  corkscrew! 

BAUDEL.      Monsieur,  your  device  is  Cruore  dices,  isn't  it? 

MONTRICHARD.  Yes,  Monsieur,  Cruore  dives;  Enriched 
by  his  blood.  This  was  not  my  own  invention:  it  was  given  by 
Louis  XIV  to  my  great-grandfather  four  generations  ago;  he 
received  eight  wounds  at  the  Battle  of  Senef. 

BAUDEL.      What  was  the  estate  worth  at  the  time? 

MONTRICHARD.      One  million. 

BAUDEL.  {^Lowering  his  eyes^  Twenty-five  thousand  francs 
a  wound,  I  am  not  as  rich  as  Louis  XIV,  Monsieur,  but  there 
are  wounds  and  wounds.  A  scratch  on  the  arm,  for  instance  — 
doesn't  that  seem  worth  fifty  thousand  francs? 

MONTRICHARD.  [^Severely'}  Do  you  mean  you  wish  to 
buy  a  wound?      You're  mad! 

BAUDEL.  Bear  in  mind  that  it  is  more  to  my  interest  than 
yours  to  keep  the  matter  a  secret.  There  is  nothing  reprehen- 
sible in  the  arrangement:  the  price  of  blood  has  always  been  zui 
honourable  thing.      Your  own  device  proves  that. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  11 

MONTRICHARD.  [^Afier  a  moment's  hesitation]  You  know, 
I  like  you  —  I  couldn't  for  the  life  of  me  say  why  —  but 
I  like  you.  It  will  be  very  amusing  to  make  you  a  man  of 
the  world.  I'll  take  that  wound  from  you,  but  —  gratis,  you 
understand? 

BAUDEL.   [^ To  Aimsc//]  That  will  cost  more — but  I  don't  mind! 

MONTRICHARD.      Send  your  seconds. 

BAUDEL.      But  the  cause  of  the  quarrel? 

MONTRICHARD.  Your  name  is  Baudel.  I  am  said  to 
have  suggested  that  you  cross  the  L.^ 

BAUDEL.      Good!      Montrichard,  a  duel  to  the  bitter  end! 

MONTRICHARD.  And  afterward  we  shall  have  a  house- 
warming  for  our  new  friendship  at  the  Hotel  du  Grand  Scander- 
burg.      I  shall  await  your  seconds  here,  my  dear  M.  Baudel. 

BAUDEL.      De  Beausejour. 

MONTRICHARD.  Yes,  yes:  de  Beausejour.  [BAUDEL 
goes  out]    There's  a  queer  type!      I'll  make  something  of  him: 

first  a  friend  —  very  attached  —  with  a  string  to  his  paw ! 

This  duel  is  exactly  what  I  needed  to  set  me  going  once  again. 
Montrichard,  the  hour  of  fate  has  sounded,  the  hour  of  marriage! 
[^He  goes  to  the  door,  meets  PAULINE  and  bows  to  her7\ 

MONTRICHARD.  You?  You're  not  dead,  then?  Why, 
the  papers  are  full  of  it! 

PAULINE.      Doubtless  a  mistake! 

MONTRICHARD.      Aren't  you  Olympe  Taverny? 

PAULINE.  Ah,  I  thought  so!  This  is  not  the  first  time  I 
have  had  the  honour  to  be  mistaken  for  that  lady.  I  am  the 
Countess  de  Puygiron,  Monsieur. 

MONTRICHARD.      A    thousand    pardons,     Madame!      The 

resemblance    is    so    striking!      Even    your    voice !      You 

will  excuse  me  for  making  so  natural  a  mistake?  Especially  as 
this  is  as  likely  a  place  to  meet  Olympe  Taverny  as  the  Countess 
de  Puygiron.      I  beg  your  pardon  once  more,  Madame. 

PAULINE.      [^Going  down-stage  to  the  right]    Of  course.  Mon- 
sieur.     I  was  looking  for  my  uncle  and  aunt  here. 
^  Which  makes  the  word  "Baudet";   "ass." 


12  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

MONTRICHARD.  They  are  at  the  spring.  M.  le  Marquis 
never  told  me  his  nephew  was  married. 

PAULINE.  For  an  excellent  reason:  he  didn't  know  it  him- 
self. 

MONTRICHARD.      Ah! 

PAULINE.  It's  a  surprise  that  my  husband  and  I  have  in 
store  for  him.  Please  be  good  enough,  therefore,  not  to  tell 
him  of  our  arrival,  if  you  happen  to  see  him  before  we  do.  Or  — 
will  you  please  show  me  the  way  to  the  spring? 

MONTRICHARD.  Do  me  the  honour  of  taking  my  arm, 
Madame.  I  have  the  good  fortune  to  be  slightly  acquainted 
with  your  family.  [^Bowing]  Baron  de  Montrichard  —  most 
pleased  to  —  this  is  nonsense,  introducing  an  old  friend! 

PAULINE.      Monsieur! 

MONTRICHARD.  Are  you  afraid  I'll  tell?  You  know  I'm 
always  on  the  woman's  side.  You  and  I  can  help  each  other; 
in  my  own  interest,  if  for  no  other  reason,  I  am  bound  to  be  dis- 
creet on  your  score. 

PAULINE.  In  what  way,  M.  de  —  de  —  Montrichard,  can  I 
be  fortunate  enough  to  serve  you? 

MONTRICHARD.  Ah,  you're  defiant?  Do  you  want  secu- 
rity? I'm  only  too  pleased.  I  am  thinking  of  marrying: 
your  great-uncle,  the  Marquis  de  Puygiron,  has  a  charming 
granddaughter.  I  have  just  made  her  acquaintance,  but  have 
not  as  yet  been  received  into  the  family  circle.  If  you  will 
arrange  that  for  me  and  further  my  suit,  I  shall  see  to  it  that 
whoever  has  the  impertinence  to  recognise  you  will  have  to  deal 
with  me. 

He  holds  out  his  hand  to  her.      PAULINE  looks  quickly  about  to  see 
whether  anyone  else  is  present. 

PAULINE.      [^Taking  his  hand~]     How  did  you  recognize  me? 
MONTRICHARD.      First,  your  face,  then  that  little  pink  mark 
on  your  beloved  ivory  neck.      The  mark  I  used  to  adore! 
PAULINE.      Do  you  still  remember  it? 
MONTRICHARD.      You  were  my  only  real  love. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  13 

PAULINE.      And  you  mine,  dear  Edouard. 

MONTRICHARD.  No,  no  —  Alfred  —  you're  mixing  the 
names.  Your  "only  real  love"  has  had  so  many  names! 
What  the  devil  put  it  into  your  head  to  marry?  You  were 
very  happy  before? 

PAULINE.  Did.'you  ever  happen  to  notice,  when  you  stepped 
out  into  the  boulevard,  that  you  had  left  your  cane  in  the  restau- 
rant? 

MONTRICHARD.      Yes. 

PAULINE.  And  you  went  back  for  it.  There  in  the  private 
dining-room  you  saw  the  wreckage  of  the  orgy:  candelabra  in 
which  the  lights  were  burned  out;  tablecloth  removed;  a  candle- 
end  on  the  table  which  was  all  covered  with  grease  and  stained 
with  wine.  Instead  of  lights  and  laughter  and  heavy  perfumes, 
that  made  the  place  gay  not  long  since,  were  solitude,  silence, 
and  a  stale  odor.  The  gilded  furniture  seemed  like  strangers 
to  you,  to  everyone,  even  to  themselves.  Not  a  single  article 
among  all  this  that  seemed  familiar,  not  one  was  reminiscent 
of  the  absent  master  of  the  house  or  awaited  his  return. 
Complete  abandonment! 

MONTRICHARD.      Exactly. 

PAULINE.  Well,  my  life  is  rather  like  that  of  the  private 
dining-room.  I  must  be  gay  or  utterly  lonely  —  there  is  no 
possible  compromise.  Are  you  surprised  then  that  the  restau- 
rant aspires  to  the  dignity  of  the  home? 

MONTRICHARD.  Not  to  mention  a  certain  taste  for  virtue 
that  you  must  have  acquired? 

PAULINE.      You're  joking? 

MONTRICHARD.  No,  virtue  is  for  you  a  new  play-thing,  I 
might  almost  say,  forbidden  fruit.  Let  me  warn  you  that  it 
will  set  your  teeth  on  edge. 

PAULINE.      We  shall  see. 

MONTRICHARD.  The  career  of  an  honest  woman  is  a  fearful 
undertaking! 

PAULINE.  It  can't  compare  with  ours!  If  you  only  knew 
how  much  energy  it  required  to  ruin  a  man! 


14  OLYMPFS  MARRIAGE 

MONTRICHARD.  No  matter,  you  are  now  Countess  de 
Puygiron.  Now  tell  me  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  news  of 
your  death  in  the  Constilutionnel ? 

PAULINE.      A  note  my  mother  sent  to  all  the  papers. 

MONTRICHARD.      How  is  good  old  Irma,  by  the  way? 

PAULINE.  Very  well  and  happy.  When  I  married,  I  gave 
her  all  I  had  —  furniture,  jewels,  income. 

MONTRICHARD.  That  was  something  of  a  consolation  for 
losing  you. 

PAULINE.  So  you  see  how  necessary  it  was  to  throw  people 
off  the  scent?  Thanks  to  this  plan,  no  one  will  dare  recognise 
Olympe  Taverny  in  the  Countess  de  Puygiron.  Now,  dear, 
you  know  if  I  had  persisted  in  not  being  recognised,  you  would 
have  retired  with  excuses  —  that  is,  if  you  hadn't  given  me  your 
security. 

MONTRICHARD.  Suppose  you  happen  to  meet  one  of  your 
friends  who  knew  of  your  liaison  with  the  Count? 

PAULINE.      No  one  knew  of  it. 

MONTRICHARD.      Ah! 

PAULINE.  Henri  took  me  seriously  from  the  very  first. 
He  was  most  discreet:  Didier  and  Marion  Delorme,  you  see! 
You  must  know  that  I've  played  my  cards  well.  I  talked  of 
going  into  a  convent;  then  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  I 
accepted.  I  pretended  I  was  going  to  California.  Henri  met 
me  in  Brittany;  I  married  him  there  a  year  ago,  under  my  real 
name,  Pauline  Morin. 

MONTRICHARD.      Is  he  as  big  a  fool  as  that? 

PAULINE.  You  insulting  creature!  He's  a  very  intelligent 
and  charming  young  man. 

MONTRICHARD.      Then  how  does  it  happen  that ? 

PAULINE.  He  never  had  a  mistress  —  his  father  was  very 
severe  with  him.  When  he  became  of  age,  he  was  as  innocent 
as 

MONTRICHARD.  As  you  —  at  the  age  of  four!  Poor 
fellow! 

PAULINE.      He's  not  to  be  pitied;  he's  very  happy  with  me. 


OLYMPES  MARRIAGE  15 

MONTRICHARD.      Do  you  love  him? 

PAULINE.  That  is  not  the  question.  I  strew  his  path  with 
flowers  —  artificial,  perhaps,  but  they  are  prettier  and  more 
lasting  than  real  ones. 

MONTRICHARD.  Truly,  do  you  think  the  game  worth  the 
candle? 

PAULINE.  So  far,  I  don't.  We've  been  spending  ten 
months  alone  in  Brittany  —  all  by  ourselves.  For  the  past 
two  months  we've  been  travelling,  alone  again.  I  can't  say 
that  we've  been  hilarious.  I  live  the  life  of  a  recluse,  going 
from  hotel  to  hotel;  with  the  maids,  servants,  and  postilions,  I 
am  "Madame  la  Comtesse."  All  that  would  be  dull  enough 
if  I  hadn't  other  dreams  for  the  future  —  but  I  have.  Now  that 
Olympe  Taverny  (God  rest  her  soul!)  has  had  time  to  go  to 
California  and  die  and  be  mourned  for  in  Paris,  I  can  boldly 
enter  society  by  the  front  door,  which  the  Marquis  de  Puygiron 
is  to  open  for  me. 

MONTRICHARD.  Is  your  husband  going  to  introduce  you  to 
his  uncle? 

PAULINE.  Indeed  he  is!  But  he's  not  expecting  the  kind 
of  meeting  I  have  planned! 

MONTRICHARD.      There's  a  fine  fellow  caught  in  a  trap! 

PAULINE.  It's  all  for  his  own  happiness!  If  he  intro- 
duces me  as  an  honest  woman,  he  will  not  be  lying:  for  a 
year  I  have  been  the  personification  of  virtue.  I  have  a  new 
skin. 

MONTRICHARD.      You  have  only  to  shed  it.  Countess! 

PAULINE.      Impertinent!  —  Here  is  my  husband! 

MONTRICHARD  walks  away  and  hows  ceremoniously  to  PAULINE. 
Enter  HENRI. 

MONTRICHARD.  Will  you  be  good  enough,  Madame,  to 
present  me  to  M.  le  Comte? 

PAULINE.      My  friend,  M.  le  Baron  de  Montrichard. 

HENRI.      [^Bowing]    Monsieur. 

PAULINE.      We  owe  our  acquaintance  to  a  rather  strange 


16  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

accident:  M.  de  Montrichard,  when  he  saw  me  come  in,  mistook 
me  for  —  you  know  whom  I  am  thought  to  resemble? 

MONTRICHARD.  The  mistake  was  all  the  more  inexcusable 
as  the  person  you  speak  of  recently  died  in  California,  and  I 
do  not  believe  in  ghosts. 

PAULINE.  Is  the  poor  creature  dead?  Well,  I  haven't 
the  courage  to  mourn  her!  Let  us  hope  I  shan't  again  be 
mistaken    for    her! 

HENRI.  Take  care,  Madame,  perhaps  M.  de  Montrichard 
feels  the  loss  more  keenly  than  you? 

MONTRICHARD.  Right,  Monsieur,  I  thought  a  great  deal 
of  the  lady.  Her  heart  was  much  above  her  station  in 
life. 

HENRI.  Ah?  Doubtless  Monsieur  was  in  a  position  to 
appreciate  her  better  than  anyone  else? 

MONTRICHARD.  No,  Monsieur,  no.  My  relations  with 
her  were  always  of  a  very  brief  and  friendly  nature. 

HENRI.  \^Sha\ing  hands  with  him  cordially]  I  am  very 
glad  to  have  made  your  acquaintance.  Monsieur  —  we  must 
become  friends! 

MONTRICHARD.      Monsieur!     [_To    himself]     I    feel    sorry 

A  sertant  enters. 


for  him! 


SERVANT.  Two  gentlemen  who  wish  to  see  M.  de 
Montrichard. 

MONTRICHARD.  [fo  himself]  Baudel's  seconds!  [^Aloud] 
Good,  I  shall  be  with  them  in  a  moment.  \^The  servant  goes  out] 
I  hope,  M.  le  Comte,  that  we  shall  soon  find  an  opportunity  of 
continuing  the  conversation?  —  Madame! 

HENRI.      \^To  himself,  as  he  sees  his  uncle]      My  Uncle! 

MONTRICHARD.  [^Meeting  the  MARQUIS  at  the  door]  M. 
le  Marquis,  you  find  yourself  in  the  bosom  of  your  family.  []//e 
goes  ou  J        j,^^  MARQUIS  and  the  MARQUISE  enter. 

MARQUIS.  It's  Henri!  My  dear  boy,  what  a  surprise! 
Q//e  opens  his  arms;   HENRI  l(_isses  him,  then  l(,isses  the  MARQUISE' 


OLYMPES  MARRIAGE  M 

hand2  Three  years  without  coming  to  see  us!  And  not  a 
letter  for  a  whole  year !      How  ungrateful  of  you ! 

MARQUISE.  What  of  it?  Family  affection  doesn't  die  out 
like  other  affection,  through  absence  or  silence.  Two  hundred 
leagues  away,  when  we  were  both  grieving  for  the  same  reason, 
we  were  together  in  our  sorrow. 

MARQUIS.  We  expected  you  just  before  your  poor  father's 
death.  We  thought  you  would  feel  the  need  of  being 
with  us. 

PAULINE  has  meantime  gone  to  the  archway,  without  losing  sight  of 
the  others.  She  ta^es  off  her  hat,  lays  it  on  a  chair,  then 
comes  forward. 

HENRI.  I  was  very,  very  lonely  and  I  thought  of  you,  but 
important  business  affairs 

MARQUIS.  I  understand  —  the  will  and  so  forth.  The 
most  painful  part  of  human  bereavements  is  that  we  cannot 
escape  from  material  worries.  Well,  here  you  are  at  last,  and 
we  are  very  happy  to  see  you. 

MARQUISE.      How  did  you  know  we  were  here? 

HENRI.  The  fact  is,  I  didn't.  I  expected  to  meet  you  in 
Vienna,  at  the  end  of  my  German  tour. 

MARQUIS.  Heaven  bless  the  chance  that  brought  you  to 
us,  then!      We  have  you  and  we  mean  to  keep  you. 

HENRI.  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  spend  some  days  with 
you,  only  I  was  just  passing  through  Pilnitz!  I  must  leave 
in  an  hour 

MARQUIS.      Nonsense! 

HENRI.      It's  a  matter  of  great  importance 

MARQUIS.  What  an  idea!  There  can't  be  anything  to 
prevent ? 

HENRI.  Excuse  me.  [f/e  looks  toward  PAULINE,  who  stands 
near  the  table.      The  MARQUIS  watches  hirri^ 

MARQUIS,  Ah?  [^Aside  to  Henri~\  You're  not  travelling 
alone?  Well,  youth  is  youth!  \_Aloud~\  If  you  have  only 
an  hour  to  stay  here,  let  us  spend  the  time  together  at  least! 


18  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

Our  hotel  is  just  two  steps  from  here.      Give  your  aunt  your 
arm. 

The  MARQUIS  takes  his  hat.      HENRI  offers  his  arm  to  his  aunt; 
they  start  for  the  door. 

PAULINE.      I  shall  wait  for  you  here,  Henri. 

MARQUIS.      {^Turning  roun(f\     You  lack  tact,  Mademoiselle! 

■  HENRI.      [Going  to  PAULINE  and  taking  her  hand']      Uncle, 

I  have  the  honour  to  present  you  to  the  Countess  de  Puygiron. 

MARQUISE.      The  Countess  de  Puygiron? 

MARQUIS.      Are  you  married? 

HENRI.      Yes,  Uncle. 

MARQUIS.  \jSecerelyJ  How  does  it  happen.  Monsieur, 
that  I,  the  head  of  the  family,  knew  nothing  of  this? 

HENRI.  Let  me  postpone  an  explanation  in  which  my 
self-respect  and  my  duty  toward  you  could  not  but  suffer. 
I  did  not  come  to  Pilnitz  to  see  you,  and  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  antagonising  you  by  my  presence  here.  In  leaving 
you,  I  believe  that  I  am  paying  you  all  the  deference  at  present 
due  you. 

MARQUIS.  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  deference.  Monsieur! 
In  families  like  ours  there  exists  a  solidarity  of  honour  which  is 
not  to  be  trifled  with  or  put  aside  by  a  caprice.  Ask  me  what 
I  have  done  with  our  family  name  and  I  shall  answer  that  I  have 
never  spotted  it  except  with  my  blood.  Now  I  command  you 
to  give  me  your  account! 

HENRI.  Command?  When  I  married  Pauline,  I  broke 
with  the  family.  I  therefore  have  the  right  to  be  rid  of  any 
duty  toward  it,  as  I  ask  none  of  its  privileges. 

MARQUISE.  Henri,  my  child,  can't  you  be  a  little  more 
conciliatory? 

MARQUIS.  Madame,  do  not  believe  for  an  instant  that  it 
is  Henri  who  is  speaking!  Can't  you  see  that  this  spirit  of 
revolt  has  been  put  into  him  by  someone  else? 

HENRI.  You  are  mistaken.  Monsieur:  I  respect  what 
deserves  respect.      But  the  prejudices  and  absurd  conventions. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  19 

the  hypocrisy  and  tyranny  of  society  —  nothing  could  prevent 
my  despising  them  as  they  deserve  to  be  despised! 

MARQUIS.  Whom  have  you  married  in  order  to  set  society 
at  defiance? 

HENRI.      I  prefer  not  to  say. 

PAULINE.  Why  not,  dearest?  You  must  not  allow  your 
uncle  to  believe  your  marriage  worse  than  a  misalliance!  That 
would  kill  him!  Let  me  reassure  him!  His  sense  of  honour 
will  surely ?      Then  we  may  go. 

HENRI.      Very  well,      [//e  walks  away] 

PAULINE.  My  name  is  Pauline  Morin,  M.  le  Marquis;  I 
am  the  daughter  of  an  honest  farmer. 

MARQUIS.  You  a  farmer's  daughter?  But  your  manners, 
your  language ? 

PAULINE.  My  dear  mother  gave  me  an  education  far 
beyond  my  station. 

MARQUIS.  Possibly!  —  Come,  Marquise.  \^He  offers  his 
arm  to  the  MARQUISE,  and  they  turn  to  go] 

PAULINE.  Please  stay.  I  ought  to  leave  if  my  presence  is 
disagreeable  to  you! 

MARQUIS.  You  really  cannot  expect  to  be  publicly  received 
into  a  family  which  you  entered  in  secret?  ^HENRI  is  about  to 
speak] 

PAULINE.  And  why  not  in  secret?  Tell  me  what  you 
suspect,  M.  le  Marquis?  My  marriage  must  seem  to  you  a 
very  treacherous  and  bold  stroke. 

MARQUIS.  That  would  not  be  at  all  necessary  with  a  child  like 
Henri! 

HENRI.      But  she  wanted  to  go  into  a  convent! 

PAULINE.  It  was  a  comedy,  a  cruel  comedy!  Whom  could 
you  hope  to  persuade  of  my  sincerity?  Who  would  admit  that 
a  girl  of  low  birth,  when  she  found  in  you  all  the  intelligence 
and  goodness  of  heart  she  had  always  dreamed,  would  give  up 
her  secret  soul  to  you?  You  were  very  simple  to  believe  it  — 
ask  your  uncle.  If  I  had  really  loved  you,  would  I  not  have  re- 
fused to  become  your  wife?      Would  I  not,  M.  le  Marquis? 


20  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

HENRI.  And  do  you  imagine  she  didn't  refuse?  She 
made  every  possible  objection  that  you  yourself  would  have 
made. 

PAULINE.  I  was  defending  not  only  your  happiness,  but 
my  own.  [^HENRI  sits  down  at  the  table^  Do  you  think  I 
had  a  beautiful  dream,  M.  le  Marquis?  If  you  only  knew  what 
I  am  suffering!  But  I  have  no  right  to  complain;  I  anticipated 
what  was  going  to  happen.  [^To  HENRl]  I  asked  God  for 
one  year  of  your  love  in  exchange  for  the  happiness  of  a  lifetime. 
He  has  kept  His  bargain,  and  given  me  even  a  little  extra  for 
full  measure:   for  you  still  love  me. 

HENRI.  \^His  arms  extended  toward  her^  I  do  love  you! 
I  love  you  as  much  as  I  did  the  first  days  of  our  love. 

PAULINE.  Poor  dear!  You  don't  realise  what  is  going 
on  within  you!  Perhaps  I'm  wrong  to  tell  you  —  but  it's 
only  what  you  will  learn  soon  enough.  Your  affection  is  already 
waning  and  you  are  being  worn  out  by  the  struggle  you  are 
making  against  the  conventions  of  society.  Your  family  tradi- 
tions, which  you  have  shattered,  and  which  you  call  prejudices, 
are  now  rising  up  one  after  the  other 

MARQUISE.      \^To  her  husband^      That's  true  enough. 

PAULINE.  You  are  resisting,  I  know,  and  you  are  already 
angry  that  your  happiness  is  not  rewarded  enough  for  the  sacrifices 
you  are  forced  to  make,  but  every  day  these  sacrifices  grow  greater, 
and  the  reward  less.  When  you  leave  here,  you  will  feel  the 
weight  of  loneliness  bearing  down  on  you;  you  will  see  with  other 
eyes  the  woman  who  ought  always  to  stand  you  in  stead  of 
family,  friends,  society  —  and  before  long  the  regret  of  what 
you  have  given  up  for  me  will  change  to  remorse. 

MARQUISE.  [To  her  husband^  She  doesn't  speak  like  a 
woman  who's  trying  to  deceive  us! 

PAULINE.  But  never  fear,  dearest,  the  day  that  happens  I 
shall  give  you  back  all  you  have  lost  for  my  sake,  and  your  love 
for  me  will  be  my  whole  life. 

HENRI.      Who  can  listen  to  you  and  not  adore  you? 

MARQUISE,     [ro  her  husband^     Poor  woman! 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  21 

PAULINE.  Goodby,  M.  le  Marquis,  and  forgive  me  for 
having  the  honour  to  bear  your  name  —  I  am  paying  dear  for  it! 

MARQUISE.      \_To  her  hushand~\    Say  something  nice  to  her. 

MARQUIS.  Only  my  rigid  principles,  which  I  have  always 
adhered  to,  separate  us  —  to  my  regret. 

PAULINE.  Thank  you!  I  go  away  proud,  for  I  feel  that 
I  am  at  least  esteemed  by  the  Great  Marquis! 

MARQUIS.      Do  you  know  my  nom  de  guerre  ? 

PAULINE.      I  am  the  daughter  of  a  Vendeenl 

HENRI.      [To  himselj~]      What's  this? 

MARQUISE.      Daughter  of  a  Vendeen? 

PAULINE.      Who  died  with  honour  on  the  field  of  battle. 

MARQUIS.       In  what  battle? 

PAULINE.      Chanay. 

MARQUIS.  I  wasn't  there,  but  our  men  fought  valiantly 
that  day!      What  did  you  say  was  your  father's  name? 

PAULINE.      Yvon  Morin. 

MARQUIS.       I  don't  recall 

PAULINE.  I  scarcely  thought  you  would:  he  was  only  a 
common  soldier  —  of  your  cause. 

MARQUIS.  We  were  all  equals,  made  noble  by  our  faith. 
If  there  had  been  distinctions  it  was  death  only  that  made  them! 
[To  HENRi]  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  marrying  the 
daughter  of  a  Vendeen?  That's  not  a  misalliance!  Your 
father  shed  his  blood  with  ours.  Countess! 

PAULINE.      Oh,  M.  le  Marquis! 

MARQUIS.  Your  uncle!  [Stretches  out  his  arms  toward 
PAULINE,  who  falls  into  fAem.] 

MARQUISE.  [As  PAULINE  kisses  her  hand]  I  was  sure 
Henri  would  not  contract  a  marriage  unworthy  of  him! 

MARQUIS.      [To  HENRI]      Now  you  won't  leave,  will  you? 

HENRI.      Uncle 

MARQUIS.  Go  if  you  like,  only  we  shall  keep  your  wife. 
Come  to  our  hotel.  Countess;  I  should  like  to  introduce  you 
to  my  granddaughter.  This  proud  nobleman  will  certainly 
follow  you! 


22  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

HENRI.      Yes,  we  shall  join  you  soon,  Uncle. 

MARQUJS.  Don't  make  us  wait  too  long  —  we  shan't  sit 
down  to  dinner  until  you  come.  [^He  shades  hands  with  PAULINE 
and  HENRI  and  goes  toward  the  door~\  It's  the  Lion  d'or.  [_He 
goes  out  with  the  MARQUISE] 

HENRI.  Swear  to  me  that  you  didn't  know  my  Uncle  was 
here!      Swear  —  on  your  life! 

PAULINE.  On  my  life,  on  my  mother!  You  suspect  some- 
thing too  terrible  for  words,  I  know! 

HENRI.  Forgive  me!  You  can  see  how  I  suffer.  I 
sometimes  even  doubt  you.  This  story  you  seemed  to  invent 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment 

PAULINE.      You  think  it  was  prepared? 

HENRI.      I  did  —  and  my  heart  sank. 

PAULINE.  Poor  child!  You  thought  I  married  in  order  to 
get  into  the  family,  and  become  a  Countess? 

HENRI.      Yes. 

PAULINE.  That  my  sole  amibiton  was  to  climb?  Oh, 
Henri,  how  could  you  have  so  low  an  opinion  of  me? 

HENRI.      Forgive  me —  I'm  not  at  all  well. 

PAULINE.  I  know,  and  for  that  very  reason  I  wanted  you 
to  be  with  your  family  once  more.  My  love  is  not  enough  in 
itself  —  but  rather  than  have  you  suspect  me,  I  should  tell  the 
whole  truth  to  your  uncle. 

HENRI.  It  would  kill  him  —  I  know  it  would  kill  him! 
^He  throws  himself  upon  the  dican^ 

PAULINE.  \jSitting  beside  hini^  Then  we'll  go  tomorrow, 
if  this  lie  is  troubling  you 

HENRI.  It  is.  Your  intention  was  good  —  thank  you  for 
that!  But  I  have  no  right  to  fly  in  the  face  of  my  uncle's 
prejudices  with  a  lie.  Every  time  he  shook  hands  with  me, 
every  time  you  spoke  to  any  member  of  my  family,  would  be  an 
abuse  of  confidence  for  which  I  should  blush. 

PAULINE.  [^Embracing  hint]  We'll  go  tonight.  Those 
clouds  on  your  forehead  must  disappear,  you  adorable  boy!  I 
ask  nothing  more  than  to  be  with  you,  alone!      Come  now,  let 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  23 

us  join  those  people  whose  peace  of  mind  gives  you  so  much 
worry. 

HENRI.      You  angel! 

PAULINE.  Ah,  you  have  given  me  wings!  \_She  gives  him 
her  arm  coquettishly .  HENRI  pisses  her  forehead.  To  herself^ 
Countess,  ah! 


ACT  II 

The  scene  is  in  the  MARQUIS*  home  in  Vienna.  The  spacious 
family  drawing-room  is  decorated  in  the  style  of  Louis  XIII 
with  recessed  walls,  wainscoted  from  top  to  bottom  in  carved 
oa^.  There  are  doors  at  the  bac\  and  at  each  side;  in  the 
recess  of  the  left  wall  is  a  large  fireplace  above  which  hangs  a 
full-length  portrait  of  the  MARQUISE.  On  each  side  of  the 
picture  is  a  candelabrum  with  five  candles.  In  the  recess  to 
the  right  is  a  deep-set  window.  .  Toward  the  bac\  on  the  same 
side  is  a  Venetian  mirror. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  MARQUISE  and  GENEVlfcVE  are  seated  em- 
broidering. The  MARQUIS  stands  by  the  fireplace.  PAULINE 
15  half -reclining  on  a  small  sofa. 

MARQUISE.  You  must  not  forget,  Tancrede,  that  we  are 
dining  at  Mme.  de  Ransberg's. 

MARQUIS.  I  shan't  forget:  you  know  I  adore  Mme.  de 
Ransberg! 

MARQUISE.  And  I  believe  your  affection  is  returned!  If 
she  were  thirty  years  older  I  might  be  jealous. 

GENEVIEIVE.  On  the  contrary,  grandmother:  rather  just 
because  she  is  twenty,  it  seems  to  me 

MARQUISE.      That  she  is  no  match  for  you,  who  are  sixty. 

GENEVlfeVE.  Do  you  think  the  victor  is  always  the  one  with 
the  heavy  battalions? 

MARQUISE.      In  matters  of  friendship,  yes. 

MARQUIS.  I  am  very  grateful  to  the  dear  little  Baroness 
for  the  way  she  welcomed  our  Pauline. 


24  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

GENEVlfeVE.  Then  you  have  reason  to  be  grateful  to  all 
Vienna,  for  that  matter. 

MARQUIS.  I  don't  deny  that.  I  have  been  touched  and 
flattered,  I  admit,  by  her  reception  here. 

GENEVIEVE.  You  might  almost  imagine  that  we  were 
concealing  contraband  goods! 

MARQUIS.     I'm  foolish,  like  the  ass  with  the  burden  of  relics! 

GENEVIEVE.      [^Rising]     Did  you  hear  that,  Pauline? 

PAULINE.      {^Emerging  from  her  reverie}     What? 

GENEVlfeVE.  [_Going  to  PAULINE]  So  much  the  worse! 
See  what  you've  lost!  That  will  teach  you  to  join  in  the 
conversation! 

PAULINE.       I'm  not  feeling  well. 

MARQUISE.      Not  yet? 

GENEVlLVE.      You're  never  well,  are  you? 

PAULINE,       It's  nothing.      \^To  herself]     What   a  bore! 

MARQUIS.  [^Sitting  by  the  Marquise}  We  made  you  stay 
up  too  late  last  night  —  you're  not  used  to  it! 

PAULINE.      That's  so. 

GENEVI&VE.      But  the  party  was  such  fun! 

PAULINE.      [^To  herself}     Like  a  rainy  day! 

GENEVIEVE.  Mme.  de  Rosenthal  is  so  jolly!  She  breathes 
an  air  of  gaiety  all  about  her.  Such  a  brilliant  soiree!  Even 
the  old  people  at  their  whist  must  have  been  excited! 

MARQUISE.  My  partner,  the  Chevalier  de  Falkenstein, 
took  my  kings  every  time 

MARQUIS.  His  excuse  was  Pauline's  laughter  —  it  distracted 
his  attention. 

GENEVI&VE.  A  deaf  man  with  a  sharp  ear!  Pauline  didn't 
move  and  she  won  enormously. 

MARQUISE.      Really? 

PAULINE.      Elnormously?      A  hundred  francs,  at  the  outside. 

MARQUIS.  That's  good,  at  a  franc  a  point.  But  I  have  an 
idea  you  don't  care  for  gambling? 

PAULINE.  I  don't,  M.  le  Marquis.  I  don't  — [_To  herself} 
at  a  franc  a  point. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  25 

GENEVlfcVE.  Pauline  is  so  serious  that  I  think  she's  bored 
by  all  this  frivolous  society. 

MARQUISE.  Yes,  and  she  seemed,  beforehand,  to  expect 
a  wonderful  time! 

PAULINE.  I  imagined  it  was  going  to  be  something  far 
different  from  this! 

MARQUIS.  You  are  too  serious  for  your  years,  my  dear 
niece. 

PAULINE.      Perhaps. 

MARQUISE.  But  society  is  not  altogether  a  matter  of 
frivolity.  If  you  are  bored  with  the  young  people,  why  don't 
you  talk  with  the  older  ones?  You  could  certainly  find  some- 
thing worth  while  to  talk  about  with  them? 

PAULINE.  Madame,  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  the 
topics  of  conversation  in  society  do  not  appeal  to  me:  I  am  a 
barbarian.       I've  lived  too  long  in  our  primitive  Brittany. 

MARQUIS.  We  shall  civilise  you,  my  dear  child.  What 
is  the  weather  like? 

GENEVIEVE.      [^Going  to  the  window]      Superb! 

MARQUISE.       It  won't  last. 

MARQUIS.      Does  your  wound  still  pain  you? 

MARQUISE.      What  wound? 

GENEVI&VE.  [^Returning]  You  didn't  know  that  grand- 
mother was  once  a  soldier? 

MARQUIS.      Genevieve! 

GENEVIEVE.  [Gomg  to  the  MARQUIS]  Did  that  displease 
you? 

MARQUISE.      No,  dear. 

MARQUIS.  You  allow  her  too  great  liberty  —  she's  too 
familiar  with  you. 

MARQUISE.  Familiarity  is  the  small-change  of  tenderness. 
We  are  too  old  to  object  to  that. 

MARQUIS.  Very  well.  That  child  speaks  to  you  sometimes 
in  a  way  I  shouldn't  dare  to  do! 

GENEVlfeVE.  This  is  between  grandmother  and  me, 
grandfather.      It  doesn't  concern  you. 


26  OLYMPES  MARRIAGE 

MARQUISE.      Genevieve,  you  are  forgetting  yourself! 

GENEVIEVE.  You're  as  severe  as  grandfather.  Did  I 
annoy  you,  grandfather? 

MARQUIS.  No,  dear.  With  me  I  allow  you  certain 
liberties 

GENEVlfcVE.  Then  you  are  as  indulgent  as  grandmother! 
\_Shc  J^isses  hirn] 

MARQUIS.  That  child  is  twisting  us  round  her  little  finger, 
Marquise. 

GENEVI&VE.  \_Tak_ing  a  hand  of  each  of  her  grandparents 
in  her  owr\\  Forgive  my  little  trick:  I  only  wanted  to  try  an 
experiment.  Henri  spoke  of  the  respect  each  of  you  had  for  the 
other 

MARQUIS.  Are  you  surprised  that  I  respect  your  grand- 
mother? 

GENEVIEVE.  Oh  no,  but  I  never  dreamed  how  far  it  went! 
Henri  called  my  attention  to  it:  "How  beautiful  it  is,"  he 
said,  "to  see  those  two  lives  so  bound  up  in  each  other!  Old 
age  without  a  blemish!  Two  hearts  that  Have  gone  through  life 
inseparable,  two  beings  whom  the  battles  of  life  have  brought 
closer  together.     The  head  and  the  saint  of  the  family  " 

PAULINE.      [To  herself^     Philemon  and  Baucis! 

GENEVl£VE.  And  tears  came  into  his  eyes  —  tears  of 
admiration  and  tenderness. 

MARQUISE.      Dear  Henri! 

MARQUIS.      He's  right,  dear  —  your  grandmother  is  a  saint! 

MARQUISE.  l^Smiling^  Tancrede,  it  isn't  your  place  to 
sanctify  me! 

MARQUIS.  Would  you  like  to  hear  about  that  wound, 
Pauline?  I'll  tell  you:  the  Marquise  came  with  me  to  the 
Chateau  of  Penisciere  —  you  know  the  details  of  that  terrible 
siege!  —  When  fire  broke  out  and  forced  us  to  leave  the  Chateau, 
we  retreated  fighting  all  the  way  to  a  little  wood  where  we  sepa- 
rated aiter  firing  our  last  volley.  The  Marquise  and  I  made 
our  way  to  a  farm-house,  where  we  hid.  As  the  door  opened  she 
fainted,  and  then  I  noticed  that  she  had  been  hit  by  a  bullet! 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  27 

[^Taking  her  handj[  My  dear  wife!  That  wound  will  be 
counted  among  your  good  deeds,  in  Heaven! 

MARQUISE,  I  hope  not,  dear.  You  have  given  me  reward 
enough  on  earth. 

PAULINE.      Noble!    [To  herself^    Poseurs! 

GENEVI&VE.  I  should  like  to  be  your  age  and  have  done 
that! 

MARQUISE.  I  think  you  would  do  the  same  as  I  did  under 
the  circumstances. 

GENEVIEVE.      I  would!      So  would  Pauline! 

MARQUISE.      Of  course:   she  is  Bretonne. 

PAULINE.      [To  herself]    They'll  soon  begin  to  think  that 

we  have  done  it!  .  ,      . 

A  servant  enters. 

SERVANT.      The  carriage  is  ready.     [^He  goes  out] 

MARQUIS.  [To  the  MARQUISE]  Come,  my  dear— [7© 
GENEVlfcVE  and  PAULINE]  We'll  come  back  and  get  you  for 
dinner.      Now  you  may  dress,  ladies. 

GENEVlfeVE.     We  have  plenty  of  time. 

PAULINE.      May  I  not  be  excused? 

MARQUIS.  Impossible,  dear,  the  dinner  is  given  in  your 
honour.      [He  MARQUIS  and  MARQUISE  go  out  at  the  back] 

PAULINE.  [r©  herself]  What  a  bore!  [^To  GENEVIEVE] 
Where  do  they  go  every  day  at  the  same  hour? 

GENEVIEVE.  They  say  they  go  out  for  a  drive,  but  no  one 
ever  sees  them. 

PAULINE.      A  mystery! 

GENEVIEIVE.  I  know,  but  I  pretend  not  to:  they  visit  the 
poor. 

PAULINE.      But  why  the  mystery? 

GENEVl£,VE.      Shouldn't  charity  always  be  secret? 

PAULINE.  Yes,  of  course.  [^To  herself]  Oh  dear,  what 
people!      I  don't  know  what  to  do  next. 

GENEVlfcVE.      Where  is  Henri? 

PAULINE.       I  have  no  idea  —  probably  visiting  the  poor. 

GENEVlfcVE.      He  seems  rather  depressed  lately. 


28  OLYMPErS  MARRIAGE 

PAULINE.  He's  never  been  over-gay:  he's  a  melancholy 
boy. 

GENEVlfeVE.     You  don't  know  of  any  hidden  trouble,  do  you? 

PAULINE.  My  dear,  melancholy  comes  from  the  stomach. 
Healthy  people  are  never  melancholy;  M.  de  Montrichard,  for 
instance.      [She  sits  down] 

GENEVI&VE.  l^Smiling']  He  must  have  an  extraordinary 
stomach! 

PAULINE.      How  clever  he  is  and  how  gay! 

GENEVlfeVE.      He  is  amusing. 

PAULINE.  And  brave!  He  would  make  a  woman  very 
happy. 

GENEVlfcVE.  You  say  that  as  if  Henri  weren't  making  you 
happy? 

PAULINE.  I  am  very  happy,  and  Henri  is  charming  to  me. 
Only,  Mme.  de  Montrichard  would  have  no  occasion  to  envy 
me.      I  should  like  to  see  you  that  woman. 

GENEVl£VE.      Me? 

PAULINE.  Haven't  you  noticed  what  marked  attention  he 
pays  you? 

GENEVlfeVE.      No.      Did  he  tell  you ? 

PAULINE.      What? 

GENEVlfeVE.      That  he's  paying  attention  to  me? 

PAULINE.  I  observed  that  myself;  it's  as  clear  as  day.  He 
is  in  love  with  you. 

GENEVIEVE.      Are  you  interested  in  him? 

PAULINE.      Yes  —  because  I  love  you. 

GENEVl£VE.      Then  be  good  enough  to  ask  him  to  stop. 

PAULINE.      Why?      Don't  you  like  him? 

GENEVl£VE.  [^Nercously^  No  more  than  I  do  anyone 
else.      I'm  never  going  to  marry. 

PAULINE.  [^Rising]  I'm  surprised.  I  didn't  think  your 
religious  devotion  went  so  far  as  to  eliminate  marriage? 

GENEVlfcVE.  It  isn't  a  matter  of  religion  —  it's  only  an 
idea  of  mine. 

PAULINE.      Then  you  love  someone  you  cannot  marry? 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  29 

GENEVIEVE.      I  love  no  one 

PAULINE.  You  are  blushing.  [^Drawing  GENEVl£VE  to  her] 
Now,  Genevieve,  confide  in  me  —  am  I  not  your  friend? 

GENEVIEVE.      I  tell  you,  I  don't  love  anyone. 

PAULINE.      Then  you  did  love  someone? 

GENEVIEVE.  Let's  not  talk  about  it,  please.  [^Leaving 
PAULINE]     I  can't.     [_She  goes  to  the  sofa] 

PAULINE.  I  understand!  \^To  herself]  So  much  the 
better  for  Montrichard!  [_To  GENEVIEVE]  My  dear,  M.  de 
Montr ichard  is  not  a  man  who  cannot  forgive  a  youthful  slip. 
[^She  goes  to  GENEVlfcVE  again] 

GENEVl£VE.      A  youthful  slip? 

PAULINE.  He's  the  ideal  husband  for  you.  He'll  never 
inquire  into  your  past  life,  and  if  anyone  should  ever  make  the 
slightest  allusion  to 

GENEVI&VE.      To  what? 

PAULINE.  What  you  don't  dare  tell  me  —  But  don't  blush, 
dear!  \^She  makes  GENEVlfeVE  sit  dowri]  What  young  girl 
hasn't  been  imprudent  once  in  her  life?  You  meet  a  handsome 
young  man  at  a  dance;  he  squeezes  your  hand;  then  perhaps 
you  answer  a  note  of  his  —  [[GENEVI£VE  starts  to  get  up  again, 
but  PAULINE  detains  her]  and  all  in  the  most  innocent  possible 
way.  Then  you  find  you're  compromised,  without  ever  having 
done  anything  actually  wrong. 

GENEVIEVE.      Note?      Compromised?      I? 

PAULINE.  Then  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  you  ought  not 
to  marry? 

GENEVlfeVE.  [Rising,  with  dignity]  I  mean,  Madame,  that 
there  is  a  man  whom  I  have  been  brought  up  to  regard  as  my 

future  husband,  and But  you  wouldn't  understand!      You 

could  suspect !      {_She  turns  her  back  'o  PAULINE] 

PAULINE.  I  am  sorry  if  I  hurt  you,  dear,  but  your  reticence 
certainly  led  me  to  suppose  —  and  you  know  I  was  only  trying 
to  be  friendly! 

GENEVl£VE.      [_Git)ing  PAULINE  her  hand]     I  was  wrong! 

PAULINE.      Now,  be  brave.      There  was  a  man,  you  say. 


30  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

whom  you  were  brought  up  to  regard  as  your  future  hus- 
band   ? 

GENEVlfeVE.  I  gave  all  I  could  —  respect  and  submission  — 
to  this  fiance.  I  tried  to  think  and  act  as  he  did.  I  was  his 
companion  in  my  secret  thoughts  —  I  —  oh,  I  can't  tell  you 
!      Now  I  feel  like  a  widow. 

PAULINE.      He's  not  dead? 

GENEVlfcVE.      Dead  to  me  —  he  is  married. 

PAULINE.      There's  no  telling  what  men  will  do! 

GENEVlfeVE.  He  hardly  knew  me.  He  met  a  woman  who 
was  worthy  of  him,  and  married  her  —  and  he  was  right. 

PAULINE.      Then  you  should  follow  his  example. 

GENEVlLVE.      With  me  it's  different. 

PAULINE.      Do  you  still  love  him? 

GENEVlfcVE.  Even  if  I  once  loved  him,  I  should  have  no 
right  to  do  so  now;  his  heart  belongs  to  another  woman. 

PAULINE.       I  don't  quite  follow  your  subtle  reasoning 

GENEVI6.VE.  It's  simply  a  matter  of  keys.  [_They  rise^ 
A  husband  should  be  able  to  open  every  drawer  belonging  to  his 
wife,  should  he  not? 

PAULINE.      Of    course. 

GENEVl£VE.  Here  is  a  little  gold  key  which  I  should  have 
to  keep  from  my  husband. 

PAULINE.      What  does  it  open? 

GENEVI&VE.      An  ebony  box  containing  my  diary. 

PAULINE.      Your  diary? 

GENEVlllVE.  Yes.  My  grandmother  taught  me,  ever  since 
the  time  I  was  a  little  child,  to  write  down  what  I  did  and 
thought! 

PAULINE.      How  queer! 

GENEVlfcVE.  It's  a  very  good  thing  to  look  into  one's  heart 
every  day.  If  there  are  any  weeds,  it's  easy  to  pluck  them  out 
before  they  take  root. 

PAULINE.  Away  with  dog's-grass,  eh?  And  so  you  wrote 
down  day  by  day  this  romance  of  yours?  Metaphorically 
speaking,  that  is  the  key  to  your  heart? 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  31 

GENEVlfcVE.      Exactly. 

PAULINE.  You  may  as  well  make  up  your  mind  that  some 
day  someone  will  steal  it. 

GENEVIEVE.     In  any  event,  it  will  not  be  M.  de  Montrichard. 
PAULINE.      So  much  the  worse  for  him  —  and  you! 

A  servant  enters. 

SERVANT.      M.  de  Beausejour.      [//e  goes  out"] 
GENEVlfcVE.     And    still    less    he!     I    can't    bear   him,    the 
smooth,  bragging !      I'm  going  to  dress.      \^She  goes  out^ 

BAUDEL  comes  in. 

BAUDEL.      I  hope  I'm  not  driving  anyone  away? 

PAULINE.      My  cousin. 

BAUDEL.  I  should  regret  it  were  I  able  to  regret  anything 
in  your  presence,  Countess! 

PAULINE.  \^Going  to  get  a  small  hand-mirror  which  lies  on  a 
console-table,  to  the  right,  and  then  motioning  BAUDEL  to  a  chair^ 
Very  gallant  of  you,  I'm  sure! 

BAUDEL.  \^To  himself^  Alone,  strange  to  say!  Let  us 
follow  de  Montrichard's  advice,  and  may  Buckingham  preserve 
me!      \^He  brings  a  chair  close  to  PAULINE^ 

PAULINE.  [^Sitting  on  the  sofa']  Is  M.  de  Montrichard 
sick,  that  we  see  Py lades  alone? 

BAUDEL.  [^Sitting  down]  No,  Madame,  he  is  not.  He 
will  himself  come  to  present  his  respects. 

PAULINE.  Do  you  know,  your  friendship  is  worthy  the  age 
of  chivalry? 

BAUDEL.  Cemented  in  our  blood!  I  owe  Montrichard  a 
little  revenge,  and  I  shall  soon  pay  my  debt! 

PAULINE.      What?      Old  friends  like  you? 

BAUDEL.  What  can  I  do?  He's  absurd;  he  gets  on  my 
nerves!  Think  of  it,  he  persists  in  noticing  your  resemblance 
to ! 

PAULINE.      \^Looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror]    That  poor 


32  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

girl  who  died  in  California.  Yes,  I  know.  Don't  you  agree 
with  him? 

BAUDEL.  I  confess  there  is  something  —  she  resembled  you 
as  the  goose  resembles  the  swan. 

PAULINE.      She  would  thank  you  for  that! 

BAUDEL.  She  lacked  that  grace,  that  distinction,  that 
eminently  aristocratic  air ! 

PAULINE.  Yet  MontricheU-d  says  we  might  be  tzJcen  for 
sisters. 

BAUDEL.      Your  homely  sister,  perhaps!  ^    \_He  laughs'] 

PAULINE.  Clever!  But  you're  not  at  all  gallant  toward 
the  woman  you  once  loved  —  you  did  once  love  Olympe,  didn't 
you? 

BAUDEL.      Not  in  the  least,  but  she  was  wild  about  me! 

PAULINE.      Really? 

BAUDEL.  I  had  the  devil  of  a  time  making  her  listen  to 
reason;  she  swore  she  was  going  to  asphyxiate  herself. 

PAULINE.  Is  it  possible?  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  you 
that  she  went  to  California? 

BAUDEL.  [^Rising]  I  am  afraid  so.  Such  is  life:  we  love 
those  who  do  not  love  us,  and  do  not  love  those  who  love  us. 
You  are  now  taking  revenge  for  that  poor  creature,  Mme.  la 
Comtesse. 

PAULINE.      I  thought  I  had  forbidden  that  topic? 

BAUDEL.      What  then  shall  I  talk  about? 

PAULINE.  \_Laying  the  mirror  on  the  soja\  Anything  else. 
What  did  you  think  of  the  affair  last  night? 

BAUDEL.      Charming. 

PAULINE.  Take  care,  I'm  laying  a  trap:  I'm  going  to  put 
your  judgment  to  the  test.  What  did  you  think  of  my 
neighbour? 

BAUDEL.      Which? 

PAULINE.  The  sHm  lady  to  my  right,  with  a  head  like  an 
ostrich's  —  whose  feet  stuck  out  so  from  under  her  dress? 

1  An  untranslatable  pun  on  "Soeur  delaid"  —  homely  sister  —  and"Soeur 
de  lait  "  —  foster-sister. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  33 

BAUDEL.  That's  not  kind  of  you.  Well,  one  would  have 
to  be  the  devil  of  a  naturalist  to  class  her  as  mammiferous. 

PAULINE.  Not  bad.  And  the  mistress  of  the  house,  with 
all  her  diamonds? 

BAUDEL.      I  thought  the  diamonds  superb. 

PAULINE.      Like  her  teeth:   half  of  them  false!    [5Ae  rises} 

BAUDEL.  [To  himself]  What  a  change  in  her!  [To 
PAULINE^     You  are  a  connoisseur,  then,  Countess? 

PAULINE.      Every  woman  is  an  amateur  jewel  connoisseur. 

BAUDEL.  Will  you  then  kindly  give  me  your  opinion  on 
this  trifle? 

He  ia\es  a  jewel-case  from  his  pocket  and  opens  it 

PAULINE.  Very  beautiful.  That  pearl  on  the  clasp  is  mag- 
nificent.     But  what  are  you  doing  with  such  a  river  of  jewels?  ^ 

BAUDEL.      Making  it  flow  —  at  the  feet  of  —  the  feet  of 

PAULINE.      Some  danseuse,  I'll  wager. 
BAUDEL.      At  the  feet  of  —  the  most  deserving. 
PAULINE.      How  lucky  she  is! 

She  holds  up  the  necklace  so  that  it  sparkles. 

BAUDEL.      [^To  himself]    She  does  look  like  Olympe! 

PAULINE.      You're  a  bad  boy. 

BAUDEL.      Blame  no  one  but  yourself,  Madame!  ^ 

PAULINE.  You  are  too  clever.  This  necklace  looks  a 
trifle  tight. 

BAUDEL.      Do  you  think  so? 

PAULINE.  Yes  —  see!  \^She  takes  it  from  the  box,  then  gets 
the  mirror.  BAUDEL,  who  has  taken  the  box,  lays  it  on  the  table 
and  returns  to  PAULINE,  who  hands  him  the  mirror.  She  then 
puts  on  the  necklace]  No,  it's  plenty  large  enough.  \_To  herself, 
as  she  looks  at  herself  in  the  glass]  How  it  shows  off  the 
complexion! 

^   "Riviere"  means  necklace. 

*  Still  another  pun;  Pauline  calls  Baudel  "a  bad  subject,"  and  he  replies 
that  "bad  sovereigns  make  bad  subjects." 


34  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

BAUDEL.  \^Aside2  Montrichard  was  right;  great  ladies 
are  as  fond  of  jewels  as  the  others  are.      What  he  knows  about 

women !      Now  —  I  —  a    Countess's    lover  —  that    will 

certainly  send  me  up  in  the  world! 

PAULINE.  {^Unclasping  the  necklace]  Take  your  diamonds 
to  your  danseuse  now! 

BAUDEL.  After  they  have  touched  your  neck?  It  would 
be  the  vilest  profanation! 

PAULINE.      Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  them? 

BAUDEL.       I  shall  keep  them  as  a  souvenir, 

PAULINE.      No,  no,  I  wouldn't  allow  that. 

BAUDEL.  Then,  Countess,  there  is  but  one  thing  to  do: 
keep  them  yourself  as  a  souvenir  of  me,  since  you  object  to  my 
having  one  of  you. 

PAULINE.  You're  out  of  your  senses!  Are  such  things 
possible? 

BAUDEL.  Why  ask?  It's  very  simple.  Would  you  not 
accept  a  bouquet  of  flowers?  Diamonds  are  flowers  —  which 
last  a  long  time  —  that  is  all. 

PAULINE.  Do  you  think  my  husband  would  look  at  it  in 
that  light? 

BAUDEL.  [^Laying  the  box  on  the  table  at  the  right]  You 
might  tell  him  that  they're  paste. 

PAULINE.  [jTo  herself]  I  never  thought  of  that!  What  a 
fool  I  am;  I  forget  that  I  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
income!  ^7o  BAUDEL]  Let's  not  joke  about  it  any  longer. 
Monsieur.  Take  this  back  to  the  jeweller  —  that  will  be  best. 
[jShe  gives  him  the  neclilace^ 

[HENRI  enters] 

BAUDEL.  [To  himself]  Her  husband,  eh?  [To  HENRI] 
How  are  you,  M.  le  Comte  ?  You're  just  in  time  to  clear  up  a 
mystery  of  which  I  am  the  victim. 

HENRI.     What  is  the  mystery,  Monsieur  ? 

BAUDEL.  Madame  is  trying  to  persuade  me  that  these 
diamonds  are  only  paste,     [//e  hands  HENRI  the  necklace.] 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  35 

PAULINE.     [To  herself  J^     Who  would  have  thought  it  of  him? 
HENRI.     I  am   no  judge.     [To  the   Couniess.2    Did  you  buy 
this,  Madame? 

PAULINE.  Yes,  because  of  the  setting.  —  It's  an  old  one. — 
Quite  a  bargain. 

BAUDEL.  I  confess  my  ignorance,  Madame,  and  I  promise 
to  keep  the  secret  of  the  marvellous  paste  diamonds.  It  will 
be  to  my  credit  that  others  are  deceived  by  them.  Are  you  going 
to  wear  it  tonight  at  Mme.  de  Ransberg's? 

HENRI.      Are  you  dining  there,  Monsieur? 

BAUDEL.  No,  M.  le  Comte,  but  Montrichard  is  going  to 
introduce  me  at  the  soiree  afterward.  I  hope  to  make  up  at 
that  time  for  not  having  seen  you  now,  for  I  must  go  —  [^Boio- 
ing.^  Mme,  la  Comtesse!  M.  le  Comtel  [^To  himself^ 
Things  are  going  beautifully!      [//e  goes  oui^ 

HENRI.  You  have  one  great  fault,  Pauline:  duplicity  — 
and  you  don't  scruple  to  act  on  every  occasion 

PAULINE.       I  don't  see ? 

HENRI.  Couldn't  you  tell  me  frankly  if  you  wanted  dia- 
monds? 

PAULINE.  \^To  herself^  Water  seeks  the  river  —  certainly 
in  this  case.^ 

HENRI.  I  never  refused  you  anything  reasonable.  As  you 
are  going  into  society,  I  realize  you  must  have  jewels,  and  if  I 
have  given  you  none  so  far,  it  was  because  I  had  not  thought 
about  it.      But  I  repeat,  I  dislike  this  underhanded  business. 

He  gives  her  the  necklace. 

PAULINE.      ^Taking  it\     I  beg  your  pardon,  dear.      It  was 
really  so  small  a  matter  that  I  was  ashamed  to  speak  of  it. 
HENRI.      How  much  do  you  need  for  other  jewels? 
PAULINE.      Didn't  your  mother  have  a  jewel-box? 
HENRI.      Yes. 
PAULINE.      Well? 

HENRI.      Her  diamonds  became  sacred  objects  when  she 
^  See  footnote,  p.  33. 


36  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

died:  they  are  not  jewels,  but  remembrances.  \^He  goes  to  the 
lejt\  Suppose  I  allow  you  fifty  thousand  francs?  Is  that 
enough? 

PAULINE.      Thank  you.      \_A  pause] 

HENRI.      \_Reiurning\     Has  my  aunt  gone  out  yet? 

PAULINE.  Yes,  with  your  uncle.  May  I  ask  where  you 
have  just  come  from? 

HENRI.      A  walk  in  the  country. 

PAULINE.       In  those  clothes? 

HENRI.      No,  I  changed  them  when  I  came  back. 

PAULINE.      \Going  to  HENRi]     Why  didn't  you  take  me? 

HENRI.  You  don't  like  walking  —  you  prefer  driving  in 
the  fashionable  streets. 

PAULINE.      But  the  country  must  be  lovely! 

HENRI.      It  is. 

PAULINE.      In  all  the  melancholy  splendour  of  autumn! 

HENRI.  What  dress  are  you  going  to  wear  to-night?  \J1e 
goes  to  the  fireplace] 

PAULINE.  Henry,  you  are  vexed  with  me  about  something? 
What  is  it? 

HENRI.      What? 

PAULINE.  I  ask  you  —  evidently  there  is  something.  I 
have  surely  done  nothing  —  have  I  given  you  reason  to  com- 
plain? 

HENRI.      Have  I  given  you  any  cause  to  be  offended? 

PAULINE.      The  idea! 

HENRI.  Please,  Madame,  let  us  leave  these  petty  family 
quarrels  to  the  lower  classes!  You  are  too  dignified  to  stoop 
to  that. 

PAULINE.  I  see:  those  awful  suspicions  are  troubling  you 
again! 

HENRI.       I  have  no  suspicions. 

PAULINE.  You  mean  you  are  sure.  Tell  me,  Henri;  my 
conscience  is  perfectly  clear,  and  I  demand  an  explanation. 

HENRI.  No  use,  Madame,  you  will  never  have  occasion  to 
complain  of  my  attitude. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  37 

PAULINE.  That's  complete  estrangement,  then!  Do  you 
think  for  one  moment  I'll  accept  that? 

HENRI.      What  difference  does  it  make  to  you? 

PAULINE.  Now,  Henri,  for  the  love  of  Heaven!  Our 
happiness  is  at  stake,  don't  you  see?  Let  us  both  be  frank. 
I'll  set  you  an  example:  yes,  in  bringing  you  to  Pilnitz,  I  knew 
we  should  meet  your  uncle. 

HENRI.  His  secretary  did  tell  me  of  a  letter  you  had  written 
him 

PAULINE,      [ro  herself]     I  thought  so! 

HENRI.  But  I  didn't  believe  that:  you  promised  me  you 
didn't  know  —  you  swore  on  your  mother's  soul. 

PAULINE.  I  would  have  sworn  on  the  soul  of  my  own  child, 
if  I  had  had  one,  because  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  the  whole 
world,  and  my  first  duty  is  to  make  you  happy!  I  wanted  to 
bring  you  back  into  your  proper  surroundings  again,  and  allow 
you  to  breathe  the  air  that  is  natural  to  you  —  that  was  my  only 
crime. 

HENRI.      I  appreciate  what  you  have  done. 

PAULINE.  But  the  way  you  say  it!  Do  you  for  one 
moment  imagine  that  I  was  prompted  by  personal  pride  — 
that  I  wanted  to  play  a  part  in  society,  and  masquerade  as  a 
great  society  belle?  An  empty  role,  dear,  and  I  am  only  too 
ready  to  relinquish  it. 

HENRI.      I  can  believe  it! 

PAULINE.      This  artificial  existence  bores  me. 

HENRI.      [^Sitting  down]     I  know. 

PAULINE.      Then  what  do  you  accuse  me  of? 

HENRI.  Nothing.  \^He  goes  to  the  right  of  the  table  and  sits 
down  agairi] 

PAULINE.  [^Sitting  by  him  on  a  little  table]  Come,  Mon- 
sieur, you  mustn't  scowl!  Kiss  your  wife,  who  loves  only 
you.  \jShe  offers  her  forehead;  HENRI  touches  it  with  his  lips] 
Do  you  object  to  my  little  trick  for  getting  the  necklace?  Don't 
scold  me  —  I  don't  deserve  it.  I'm  not  going  to  society  affairs 
any  more.      Then,  that  matter  of  your  mother's  jewels  —  that 


38  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

was  tactless,  indelicate  of  me.  I  should  have  realised  that  a 
saint's  relics  should  belong  only  to  an  angel.  Keep  them, 
preserve  them  religiously,  and  if  Heaven  grants  us  the  blessing 
of  a  daughter 

HENRI.  [^Violently,  as  he  rises']  You  —  a  daughter!  She 
might  resemble  you! 

PAULINE.  Henri!  [^She  tries  to  stand  up,  but  he  forces  her 
hac\  to  her  place] 

HENRI.  Don't  say  a  word!  Let  us  have  no  more  of  this 
ridiculous  farce!  I  know  you  only  too  well!  All  that  virtue 
you  assume  so  cleverly,  your  unselfishness,  love,  repentance  — 
the  whole  thing  has  fallen  from  you  like  a  load,  like  thick  paint 
—  in  the  warm  atmosphere  of  this  family  circle!  I  can  see! 
I  am  no  longer  the  child  you  seduced! 

PAULINE.  [Standing  up]  You  grow  younger,  my  dear: 
you  had  reached  years  of  discretion  when  you  married  me. 

HENRI.  [Sadly]  Twenty-two!  I  had  just  lost  my  father, 
a  man  whose  severity  kept  me  a  child  when  I  should  have  been 
a  young  man.  You  were  my  first  mistress  —  I  knew  nothing 
of  life,  except  what  you  taught  me.  I  wasn't  hard  to  deceive; 
I  made  an  easy  rung  in  the  ladder  of  your  ambition. 

PAULINE.  My  ambition?  Ha,  how  far  has  it  gone?  I'm 
really  surprised  at  you!  You  might  think  I  had  lived  a  gay 
and  merry  life  with  you,  alone  for  a  year! 

HENRI.  You  may  well  regret  all  the  wasted  hours,  after 
what  I  have  just  found  out.  The  society  our  family  moves  in 
is  not  exactly  what  you  had  expected,  I  know,  and  your  disap- 
pointment has  opened  my  eyes.  You  feel  that  this  is  not  quite 
your  place  —  you  feel  ill  at  ease,  out  of  your  natural  element; 
you  cannot  forgive  the  real  society  ladies  for  the  superiority  of 

their  manners  and  their  breeding .      ^PAULINE  is  about  to 

speaf[\  I  can  see  how  bitter  you  are  from  every  word  you  speak. 
You  cannot  understand  the  true  worth  or  the  essential  goodness 
of  this  family.  You  are  bored,  anql  as  out  of  place  as  an  unre- 
pentant sinner  in  church 

PAULINE.      [Sharply]    That  will  do!      You  don't  love  me. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  39 

in  other  words.  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do:  separate  —  on 
friendly  terms. 

HENRI.      Separate?      Never. 

PAULINE.  Are  you  doing  me  the  honour  to  want  my  com- 
pany? 

HENRI.  You  bear  my  name,  Madame,  and  I  shall  not  allow 
it  to  be  dragged  in  the  gutter.  \^A  pause  ensues'}  Now  let  us 
quietly  accept  the  result  of  our  act.  We  are  bound  together: 
let  us  walk  side  by  side,  and  try  not  to  hate  each  other. 

PAULINE.      You  will  find  that  difficult. 

HENRI.  Never  fear:  if  I  cannot  forget  how  you  became 
Countess  de  Puygiron,  I  shall  never  lose  sight  of  that  fact  that 
you  are  she.  Now,  I  have  already  shown  you  too  much  of  what 
I  feel  —  this  explanation  is  at  an  end.  Let  us  do  our  best  to 
keep  up  appearances. 

PAULINE.      A  nice  life  to  look  forward  to,  isn't  it? 

GENEVIEVE  enters  in  evening  dress. 

GENEVlfeVE.  Pauline,  aren't  you  going  to  dress?  They're 
coming  for  us  soon. 

PAULINE.  I  forgot  —  I  was  talking  with  Henri.  I'll 
hurry,  though.  [^She  starts  to  go}  Scold  your  cousin,  dear; 
she  wants  to  be  an  old  maid! 

GENEVlfcVE.      Pauline! 

PAULINE.  Henri  is  another  edition  of  myself.  She  wants 
to  remain  an  old  maid  in  order  to  be  faithful  to  a  childhood  hus- 
band who  deserted  her  —  for  three  dolls! 

HENRI.      l^Troubled}     Genevieve ? 

GENEVlfe.VE.      I  don't  know  what  she  means? 

PAULINE.      [To  herself}    How  troubled  they  are! 

HENRI.      [To  PAULINE]    You'll  never  be  ready -in  time! 

PAULINE.  [To  herself}  Ha,  is  he  the  childhood  husband? 
I'll  soon  find  out!  [^A  gesture  from  HENRi]]  I'm  going.  You'll 
talk  sense  to  her,  won't  you?      \^She  goes  out} 

GENEVlfcVE.      Pauline  doesn't  know  what  she's  talking  about. 


40  OLYMPES  MARRIAGE 

She  can't  imagine  a  girl's  not  wanting  to  marry  without  there 
being  some  mystery. 

HENRI.       Is  it  true  that  you  don't  intend  to  marry? 

GENEVIEVE.  I  don't  exactly  know,  but  I'm  not  prejudiced 
against  marriage.  I  consider  it  the  basis  of  home-life,  if  not 
a  religion  in  itself,  and  I  should  be  too  proud  to  accept  a  master 
who  would  not  be  a  god  for  me. 

HENRI.  You  are  right,  Genevieve:  wait  for  a  man  who  is 
worthy  of  you. 

GENEVIEVE.  My  grand-parents  have  given  me  so  splendid 
an  example  of  married  life  that  I'd  rather  a  thousand  times  go 
into  a  convent  than  marry  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  or  because 
it's  the  thing  to  do.  Rather  than  accept  the  first  man  who 
happens  along 

HENRI.  The  worst  misfortune  that  can  befall  a  human  being 
is  an  uncongenial  marriage. 

GENEVl£VE.  And  I'm  so  happy  here  —  my  people  are  so 
good  to  me!  The  man  who  takes  me  from  my  home  will 
seem  like  a  stranger  —  it  would  be  like  leaving  a  temple  for 
an  inn. 

HENRI.  \_To  himself^  Here  was  my  happiness!  So  near 
at  hand!      [[//e  turns  aside,  putting  his  hand  over  his  eyes^ 

GENEVIEVE.      What  are  you  thinking  of? 

HENRI.  Nothing;  I  was  looking  at  that  portrait.  {^He 
indicates  the  MARQUISE'  portrait,  over  the  fireplace^ 

GENEVlfcVE.  It  seems  to  keep  watch!  How  comforting 
it  is!      I  feel  that  the  whole  house  is  protected  by  it. 

HENRI.  \^To  himself,  as  he  looks  at  the  portrait^  She  would 
have  been  my  mother!  \^A  servant  enters,  announces  Madame 
Morin  and  goes  out^    Madame  Morin? 

IRMA  comes  in. 

IRMA.  Where  is  she?  Where  is  my  daughter?  —  How  are 
you,  son-in-law? 

GENEVl£VE.      How  glad  Pauline  will  bel 
IRMA.      Where  is  she? 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  41 

GENEVIEVE.  Dressing.  Don't  let  her  know  you  are  here  — 
we'll  give  her  a  surprise. 

IRMA.  You  must  be  her  cousin.  Mademoiselle?  Fine 
young  lady,  well  set-up!      Kiss  me,  will  you,  angel? 

GENEVIEVE.  Delighted,  Madame.  £She  goes  toward  IRMA, 
but  HENRI  quickly  steps  between  the  two^ 

HENRI.  To  what  do  I  owe  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you, 
Madame? 

IRMA.     My  maternal  affection.     \_A  carriage  is  heard  outside^ 

GENEVIEVE.  Grandfather's  coming.  I'll  tell  him  you're 
here.      \_She  goes  ouC\ 

HENRI.      What  do  you  want? 

IRMA.      Well  —  have  I  a  daughter  or  haven't  I? 

HENRI.  You  haven't  any  longer.  She  is  dead  to  you: 
you  have  inherited  everything  she  possessed. 

IRMA.  My  dear,  that  inheritance  has  taken  wings!  I've 
speculated. 

HENRI.      I  see.      How  much  will  you  take  to  go? 

IRMA.      Heavens!      He  wants  to  buy  a  mother's  love! 

HENRI.      I'll  give  you  an  income  of  fifteen  hundred  francs. 

IRMA.      I  must  have  my  daughter. 

HENRI.      Three  thousand. 

IRMA.      You  poor  boy! 

HENRI.  Come,  Madame,  they'll  be  here  shortly.  Tell  me 
how  much  you'll  take. 

IRMA.      Five  thousand. 

HENRI.      Very  well.      But  you  leave  tomorrow  morning? 

IRMA.      All  right. 

HENRI.      Sh!      Here's  my  uncle. 

The  MARQUIS  comes  in. 

MARQUIS.      I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mme.  Morin. 
IRMA.      M.  le  Marquis,  the  honour  is  mine. 
MARQUIS.      As  the  mother  of  a  charming  daughter!      True! 
IRMA.      Excuse  my  travelling  clothes  —  I  should  have  fixed 
up  a  little,  but  I  so  wanted  to  see  my  girl! 


42  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

MARQUIS,  Very  natural,  but  your  Breton  costume  would 
have  been  dear  to  the  eyes  of  an  old  Chouan.  It  was  very 
wrong  of  you  not  to  wear  it. 

HENRI.      [To  IRMA]     Pretend  to  understand! 

IRMA.      Oh,  one  can't  travel  in  such  a  costume. 

MARQUIS.  [To  HENRI]  She  looks  Hke  a  clothes-dealer — 
but  your  wife  will  see  to  that.  [^AIou<r]  Will  you  see  that 
Madame's  room  is  made  ready? 

IRMA.  A  thousand  thanks,  M.  le  Marquis,  but  I'm  only 
passing  through  the  city.  I  must  leave  for  Dantzig  tomorrow 
morning. 

MARQUIS.      And  why  must  you  go  to  Dantzig  so  soon? 

IRMA.  To  collect  a  debt  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs. 
I'll  lose  it  if  I  don't  go  tomorrow.      Ask  my  son-in-law. 

HENRI.      That's  so. 

MARQUIS.  Then  I  have  nothing  further  to  say.  But  you 
will  see  us  on  your  return? 

IRMA.      You  are  too  good,  M.  le  marquis. 

MARQUIS.  I  should  like  to  know  you  better.  We'll  talk 
about  Brittany  —  in  Breton. 

IRMA.      [To  herself^    Good  Lord! 

HENRI.  I  think  it's  time  to  go  to  Mme.  de  Ransberg's, 
Uncle.  Pauline  may  stay  with  her  mother:  it  will  be  an  excel- 
lent excuse. 

MARQUIS.      Very  true. 

The  MARQUISE  and  GENEVltVE  enter. 

MARQUISE.      You  are  very  welcome,  Madame. 

MARQUIS.      My  wife  —  Madame  Morin. 

IRMA.      ^ConfusedJl     Madame  —  I  —  this  honour 


MARQUISE.      You  find  your  daughter  surrounded  here  only 
by  friends,  Madame. 

IRMA.      Oh,  of  course  —  Madame  —  Madame  is  too  good! 

PAULINE  enters  in  evening  dress,  wearing  the  necklace. 

PAULINE.      Are  you  ready? 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  43 

MARQUIS.      You  won't  have  to  go,  dear. 

PAULINE.  Why?  [GENEVIEVE  takes  her  hand  and  conducts 
her  to  IRMA]  Mother!  [_She  steps  back,  looking  nervously  at 
the  marquis] 

IRMA.      Yes,  dearie,  it's  me! 

MARQUIS.  \^To  the  MARQUISE]  We're  in  the  way  here.  — 
We  are  now  obliged  to  leave  you,  Madame;  we  are  dining 
out. 

MARQUISE.  We  should  be  very  sorry,  Madame,  to  be  in  the 
way  —  you  must  want  to  give  free  rein  to  your  feelings. 

IRMA.      Oh,  I  —  please 

GENEVIEVE.      [70  PAULINE]     What  lovely  diamonds! 

MARQUIS.      Well,  well,  Henri  is  gallant! 

PAULINE.  They're  only  paste  —  I  just  thought  it  would 
be  amusing  to  have  them! 

MARQUISE.  Marvellous  imitation  —  that  pearl  especially! 
But,  my  dear,  the  Countess  de  Puygiron  should  never  wear 
artificial  pearls!  —  Good  evening,  Madame. 

She  takes  HENRI'S  arm,  GENEVIEVE  takes  that  of  the  MARQUIS, 
and  they  go  out.  It  begins  to  grow  dark-  PAULINE  waits  a 
moment  until  the  others  are  out  of  hearing. 

PAULINE.  Oh,  Mother,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you!  \^She 
kisses  her^  What  is  going  on  in  Paris?  How  is  Celeste?  And 
Clemence?  And  Taffetas?  Ernest?  Jules?  Gontran?  And 
how  was  the  ballet  at  the  Opera?  And  the  Maison  d'Or? 
And  the  Mont-de-Piete? 

IRMA.      Oh,  my! 

PAULINE.  I've  been  dying  to  know  for  a  whole  year!  Let 
me  take  oflF  my  corsets!  God,  it's  fine  to  talk  with  you,  mother, 
for  a  minute! 

IRMA.  Pauline's  herself  again!  I  knew  all  this  greatness 
wouldn't  change  you.      You're  always  the  same. 

PAULINE.  More  than  ever.  Did  the  news  of  my  death 
make  much  of  a  stir  in  Paris? 

IRMA.      I  should  say  it  did!     What  a  lot  of  people  went  to 


44  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

your  funeral!      More  than  to  La  Fayette's!      I  was  awfully 
proud  to  be  your  mother  —  take  my  word  for  it! 

PAULINE.  Poor  dear!  But  here  I  am  rattling  along  — 
maybe  you'd  like  something  to  eat? 

IRMA.      Give  me  some  fruit  —  fresh.       It's  six  o'clock. 

PAULINE.      I  forgot  —  happiness  of  seeing  you!     \_She  rings\ 

IRMA.      I'm  all  excited! 

A  servant  enters. 
IRIVIA  takes  off  her  hat  and  cloak. 

PAULINE.  Lay  places  for  two.  [To  IRMA]  Shall  we  eat 
here? 

IRMA.      Suits  me  down  to  the  ground. 

PAULINE.  \^To  the  servant,  severely^  You  hear?  And 
don't  take  an  hour  for  it,  either! 

SERVANT,  [ro  himself}  As  if  I  were  a  dog!  [f^e  goes 
out'] 

PAULINE.  [^Returning  to  IRMA]  What  did  the  girls  think 
of  my  trick? 

IRMA.  They  were  all  jealous  of  the  gorgeous  funeral. 
Clemence  threw  herself  into  my  arms  and  cried:  "The  idea! 
Oh,  my!" 

PAULINE.      Poor  creature!      Who's  she  with  now? 

IRMA.  Don't  talk  about  it!  She's  got  better  luck  than  an 
honest  woman!      A  fine  general:   fifteen  thousand  a  year! 

PAULINE.  I  was  a  bigger  fool  than  she!  [^The  servant 
brings  a  table  and  sets  it] 

IRMA.      Aren't  you  happy? 

Enter  ADOLPHE. 

ADOLPHE.      I  beg  your  pardon,  Mme.  la  comtesse,  for   the 

liberty  I  am  taking  of 

PAULINE.      Be  seated.  Monsieur. 

The  servant  brings  in  the  dessert. 

ADOLPHE.  The  day  after  tomorrow  our  theatre  is  to  give 
a  performance  for  my  benefit,  and  I  thought  that  as  a  compatriot, 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  45 

you  would  be  glad  to  take  a  box.      Will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
accept  this? 

He  gives  a  ticket  to  MONTRICHARD,  who  has  entered  meanwhile, 
and  who  hands  it  to  PAULINE. 

PAULINE.  Many  thanks,  Monsieur.  I  am  told  that  you 
do  impersonations? 

ADOLPHE.  Yes,  Madame,  I  owe  my  success  in  a  foreign 
country  to  that. 

PAULINE.  If  you  are  not  occupied  this  evening,  we  should 
be  delighted  to  hear  you. 

ADOLPHE.      Charmed,  Madame. 

PAULINE.  [^To  the  servant^  Bring  me  another  glass,  and 
then  go.  \^The  glass  is  brought  and  filled  with  wine^  Here, 
M.  Adolphe,  drink  this. 

ADOLPHE.  Thank  you,  Madame,  but  champagne  does  not 
agree  with  me. 

IRMA.  It's  Cliquot,  old  man;  you  can't  get  drunk  on  that. 
Here's  to  you! 

ADOLPHE.      [^After  drinking]     It's  good! 

IRMA.  l^Pouring  out  another  glassful  for  hinf\  Say,  little 
one,  you  squint,  don't  you? 

ADOLPHE.  Yes,  Madame,  that  squint  was  what  induced  rae 
to  go  into  comic  impersonation. 

MONTRICHARD.  And  is  to  give  us  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
you!      [adolphe  drinks'] 

PAULINE.      Sing  us  a  song,  M.  Adolphe. 

ADOLPHE.  Le  Petit  cochon  de  Barharie  ?  [iRMA  again  fills 
his  glass] 

PAULINE.      No,  a  student  song! 

ADOLPHE.       I  don't  know  any. 

MONTRICHARD.  But  you  look  as  if  you'd  been  a  notary's 
clerk? 

ADOLPHE.      I  have.  Monsieur. 

PAULINE.      You  have? 

ADOLPHE.      Yes,   I  come  of  a  good  family,  Madame;    my 


46  OLYMPFS  MARRIAGE 

father  was  one  of  the  biggest  hardware  merchants  in  Paris.  He 
wanted  me  to  go  into  the  law,  but  an  irresistible  sense  of  vocation 
drove  me  to  the  boards.      []//e  drinksj^ 

MONTRICHARD.      Your  father  must  have  been  very  angry? 

ADOLPHE.  He  even  refused  to  allow  me  to  use  his  name — 
said  I  was  soiling  it  by  dragging  it  before  the  footlights. 

PAULINE.      What  is  his  name? 

ADOLPHE.      Mathieu. 

MONTRICHARD.       It  would  have  been  downright  sacrilege! 

IRMA.  Here's  to  you,  then,  son  of  Mathieu!  I  like  you! 
You're  not  handsome  and  you're  something  of  a  fool,  but  you're 
nice  and  simple! 

AEXDLPHE.      [^DispIeasecQ     Madame! 

IRMA.  Now  you  mustn't  be  angry,  little  one!  I  was  only 
joking!  [_She  rises,  holding  a  bottle  in  one  hand  and  a  glass  in  the 
other]     You're  good  looking,  good  looking — between  squints! 

PAULINE.  Come  now,  let's  put  our  elbows  on  the  table  and 
say  foolish  things!  Why,  I  can  almost  imagine  myself  at  the 
Provengaux  —  I'm  born  again! 

MONTRICHARD.      [To  himself]     Homesickness  for  the  mud! 

IRMA.  Can't  see  decently  in  here!  And  I  don't  like  to 
say  foolish  things  in  the  dark!      \^She  hands  the  bottle  to  ADOLPHE^ 

MONTRICHARD.      Someone'll  get  wounded! 

PAULINE.  l^Tal^ing  a  candle  from  the  table  and  putting  it  in 
one  of  the  candelabra]  Let's  light  all  the  candles!  Help  me, 
Montrichard. 

MONTRICHARD.  I  don't  know  how  many  there  are  —  but 
before  long  Irma's  going  to  see  thirty-six. 

ADOLPHE.  Well,  I  see  fifteen.  [PAULINE  and  MONT- 
RICHARD stand  on  chairs  at  either  side  of  the  fireplace  and  light 
the  large  candelabra  between  which  hangs  the  portrait] 

IRMA.      A  picture?      What  is  it? 

PAULINE.      A  barometer. 

IRMA.      That  barometer  looks  to  me  like  an  old  lady. 

MONTRICHARD.  [7o  PAULINE]  Hm!  What  if  she  should 
come  in  now? 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  47 

PAULINE.  Let  them  all  come!  They  can  send  me  to  the 
devil  with  their  five  hundred  thousand  francs,  if  they  like! 

ADOLPHE.  IWho  has  taken  MONTRICHARD'S  place]  I'd 
like  to  suggest  a  toast. 

IRMA.  [^Coming  down-stage  on  the  right]  Go  ahead,  but 
try  to  be  respectable. 

IVIONTRICHARD.  Wait  for  us.  \^Near  the  table]  We're 
listening. 

ADOLPHE.  To  that  enchanting  sex  which  is  the  charm  and 
torment  of  our  existence  —  in  a  word:  the  ladies! 

MONTRICHARD.      You  are  rather  forward,  M.  Adolphe! 

IRMA.      /  call  it  risque! 

PAULINE.      Comes  from  a  fortunate  man,  evidently. 

ADOLPHE.      Yes,  Madame 

MONTRICHARD.  You  must  have  all  sorts  of  affairs,  a  man 
like  you,  so  exposed  in  the  theatre 

ADOLPHE.  [^Fatuously]  I  must  admit  that  opportunities 
are  not  lacking. 

MONTRICHARD.      Then  what  is,  for  the  love  of  Heaven? 

ADOLPHE.       I'm  a  respectable  man:    I'm  married. 

PAULINE.  A  very  grave  fault  —  you  must  try  to  redeem 
yourself. 

IRMA.      And  look  after  your  wife!      Take  my  advice! 

ADOLPHE.      I  beg  you,  respect  the  mother  of  my  children! 

MONTRICHARD.      Oh,  Adolphe,  hast  thou  children? 

ADOLPHE.      Three:   all  my  living  image! 

PAULINE.      I  pity  the  youngest. 

ADOLPHE.      Why? 

PAULINE.  He  has  the  longest  time  during  which  to  resemble 
you! 

MONTRICHARD.  All  children  begin  by  looking  like  papa, 
and  end  by  resembling  their  father! 

IRMA.      "The  voice  of  blood"  is  a  prejudice. 

PAULINE.  [^Raising  her  glass]  Down  with  prejudices! 
Down  with  the  family!  Down  with  marriage!  Down  with 
the  marquis! 


48  OLYMPE-S  MARRIAGE 

MONTRICHARD.      Down  with  hardware  merchants! 
ADOLPHE.      Down  with  hardware  merchants! 
IRMA.      Long  Uve  us! 
PAULINE.      ISinging] : 

When  you  haven't  any  money 

And  you  write  to  your  dad, 
And  he  answers,  "Don't  get  funny; 

Don't  make  love  on  my  cash,  lad; 
You  can't  make  love  on  that. 
And  turn  night  into  day " 

AH  join  in  the  refrain,  clin\ing  their  Ignites  on  the  glasses.   ADOLPHE 
falls  from  his  chair,  and  IRMA  gradually  dozes. 

MONTRICHARD.  [lo  himself]  And  to  think  of  all  she  did 
in  order  to  become  a  countess! 

PAULINE.  \^Dreamily2  The  dear  old  songs  of  my  youth! 
Those  lovely  old  dresses  and  scarves  I  used  to  wear!  The 
dances  at  the  Chaumiere — dinners  at  the  Moulin-Rouge — the  old 
mill  I  used  to  throw  my  hat  over!  I  can  see  a  young  girl  living 
in  an  attic;  one  day  she  runs  off  over  the  fields  to  meet  her  lover 
for  the  first  time.     And  the  sun!     "Open  the  door,  please!" 

IRMA.      [Half -asleep]     Ah! 

MONTRICHARD.      [To  himself]     I  thought  so! 

ADOLPHE.  [Rising,  quite  drunk]  I  tell  you  —  I'm  not 
bad-looking! 

PAULINE.  Then  you're  a  blackguardly  imposter!  Take 
o£F  your  false  nose  and  your  china  eyes ! 

MONTRICHARD.      Take  off  his  head,  while  we're  about  it! 

AEXDLPHE.      My  wife  thinks  I'm  very  distinguished  looking. 

PAULINE.      She's  unfaithful  to  you! 

ADOLPHE.      Oh,  if  I  thought  so ! 

MONTRICHARD.  You  may  be  sure  she  isn't,  old  man!  You 
should  never  doubt  your  wife! 

ADOLPHE.  Would  you  swear  it  on  the  head  of  this  respect- 
able lady? 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  49 

MONTRICHARD.  Lend  me  your  head,  Irma;  I  should  like 
to  oblige  this  gentleman. 

ADOLPHE.  [Sobbing}  How  unhappy  I  am!  She's  deceiv- 
ing me,  I  know ! 

PAULINE.     How  about  your  good  looks,  now,  you  fool? 

IRMA.      There's  a  fine  comedian  for  you! 

ADOLPHE.  [Falling  into  IRMA'S  arms]  You,  my  mother, 
you  understand  me! 

IRMA.  [Repulsing  hinf]  Here  now,  you  fool!  Tell  us 
something  funny;   you  came  here  to  make  us  laugh. 

ADOLPHE.      That's   right  —  well  —  a   baptism   song!      [He 

-''             Little  Leon,  on  his  mother's  breast 
Was  never  unhappy 

[He  stops,  sobbing  again]  My  poor  children!  they  are 
unhappy 

PAULINE.      What?      Your  children? 

ADOLPHE.  I  bought  my  wife  a  cake  yesterday,  and  I  haven't 
paid  the  baker  yet!      [He  falls  down  into  his  chair] 

MONTRICHARD.      [To  himself]     Poor  devil! 

IRMA.  Look,  Minette,  he's  a  good-hearted  fellow.  He's 
ruining  himself  for  women. 

PAULINE.  Don't  cry,  baby,  we  won't  send  you  away 
empty-handed!      Montrichard,  give  him  my  purse. 

MONTRICHARD.  [To  PAULINE]  Charity  will  be  your  ruin. 
[Giving  ADOLPHE  the  purse]    Here  you  are,  old  man. 

ADOLPHE.  [Rejecting  it]  No.  Monsieur,  no —  I  receive 
money  only  from  my  manager  —  when  he  gives  it  to  me.  This 
would  be  charity.      Thank  you,  I  come  of  a  good  family! 

PAULINE.  I  feel  so  sorry  for  him.  I  don't  like  to  see  misery 
at  such  close  quarters. 

IRMA.      If  he's  proud,  it's  his  own  loss! 

PAULINE.  What  can  I  make  him  accept?  [She  quickly 
ta\es  the  pearl  from  her  necklace  and  gives  it  to  ADOLPHE]  Here, 
baby,  here's  a  little  trinket  for  your  wife.  You  can't  refuse 
that. 


50  OLYMPES  MARRIAGE 

ADOLPHE.  You  are  very  kind,  Mme.  la  Comtesse.  \_He 
\i5ses  her  hand^ 

PAULINE.  It's  late  —  you  must  go  home  now.  Take  him 
to  the  door,  Montrichard.  [iRMA  fills  ADOLPHE'S  pockets  with 
the  remains  of  the  dessert^ 

MONTRICHARD.  Take  my  arm,  M.  Adolphe.  [To  A/m- 
selj^  Olympe  is  herself  again!  God  knows  where  she'll  end 
now! 

ADOLPHE.  [^To  PAULINE]  You're  an  angel.  [7©  IRMA] 
You're  both  angels. 

MONTRICHARD.      Don't  say  that!      They  won't  believe  you! 

ADOLPHE.      [70  MONTRICHARD]     So  are  you! 

MONTRICHARD.  Of  course  I  am.  So  are  you  —  an  im- 
possible angel.      Come  now,  son  of  Mathieu!      \^They  go  ou/] 

IRMA.  {^Yawning  and  stretching  herself^  What  an  idea! 
To  give  him  an  artificial  pearl! 

PAULINE.  Artificial?  It's  worth  at  least  a  thousand 
francs. 

IRMA.      ^Sitting  up']    A  thousand  francs?      Are  you  crazy? 

PAULINE.  What  of  it?  I  didn't  have  anything  else  handy. 
[^Brooding  for  an  instant^  It  will  bring  me  luck!  My  separa- 
tion will  be  a  success! 

IRMA.      Got  a  pack  of  cards  around  here? 

PAULINE.  ^Taking  a  candelabrum  and  going  toward  the  door 
leading  to  her  roorri]     Not  here,  but  I  have  in  my  room.      Why? 

IRMA.  ^Following  her]  I  want  to  try  —  see  how  you'll 
succeed. 

PAULINE.      Do  you  still  believe  in  card-tricks? 

IRMA.      Do  I?      That's  the  only  thing  that's  dead  certain! 

PAULINE.      Nonsense! 

IRMA.  Stop  it!  You'll  come  to  some  bad  end  if  you  don't 
believe  in  something. 

PAULINE.  I  rely  on  myself.  l^Ta^ing  up  the  candelabrum 
which  she  had  set  down] 

IRMA.  You're  right;  we  must  help  ourselves;  then  Heaven 
will  help  us. 


OLYMPES  MARRIAGE  51 

PAULINE.      Yes,  Heaven! 

IRMA.      Figuratively  speaking.      Now  for  the  cards! 

PAULINE.      My  separation! 

They  go  out  at  the  left.     As  IRMA  passes  the  MARQUISE'  portrait, 
she  bows  ceremoniously  to  it. 

ACT  III 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  preceding  act.      MONTRICHARD 
and  a  servant  are  present. 

SERVANT.  Mme.  la  Comtesse  asks  M.  le  Baron  to  be  good 
enough  to  wait  a  moment  for  her.  Here  are  the  newspapers. 
\^He  goes  oui^ 

MONTRICHARD.  Do  I  arrive  in  the  midst  of  a  crisis? 
Hardly  tactful,  but  what's  the  odds?  If  I  don't  succeed  in 
marrying  this  lady,  I  can  easily  find  another.  Now  I  am  really 
quite  a  catch.      But  then  why  should  I  marry  at  all? 

PAULINE  comes  in. 

PAULINE.      How  are  you,  M.  de  Corbeau?* 

MONTRICHARD.      Do  I  seem  handsome  ^  to  you? 

PAULINE.  As  everything  does  which  one  is  on  the  point  of 
losing? 

MONTRICHARD.  Oh,  have  I  been  fortunate  enough  to  cause 
you  some  anxiety,  Mme.  la  Comtesse? 

PAULINE.  Even  sleeplessness  —  or  rather,  nightmares. 
How  inconsiderate  of  you  to  stay  at  Homburg  for  a  week  without 
writing  a  line!  I  dreamed  of  you  as  having  lost  every  sou,  and 
your  head  was  bound  up  in  bloody  bandages! 

MONTRICHARD.  And  you  shed  a  tear  for  me?  Mourned 
by  Olympe  —  what  an  occasion  for  a  beautiful  death!  I've 
always  missed  the  exact  occasion.  Far  from  blowing  out  my 
brains,  I  blew  up  the  bank!' 

^  Literally,  "crow,"  used  in  the  sense  of  "vulture." 
^  A  pun  on  "  beau  "  —  handsome  —  and  "  corbeau." 
*  A  pun  on  "sauter  la  cervelle"  and  "sauter  la  banque." 


52  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

PAULINE.      Really? 

MONTRICHARD.  As  really  as  I  have  the  honour  to  announce 
the  news  to  you. 

PAULINE.  \_Enthusiastically~\  What  a  man!  And  what 
luck!  And  you  wonder  why  women  love  and  admire  you! 
If  you  were  only  willing,  it  wouldn't  be  that  fool  Baudel  who'd 
abduct  me 1 

MONTRICHARD.  It  would  be  that  ass  Montrichard  —  but 
you  would  be  a  greater  fool  than  he! 

PAULINE.      \_Lauihinf\    That's  true  enough. 

MONTRICHARD.      What  is  this  joke  about  the  abduction? 

PAULINE.  It's  a  very  serious  matter.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  kick  over  the  traces,  and  I've  chosen  M.  de  Beausejour 
as  my  accomplice. 

MONTRICHARD.  But  I  was  told  at  his  rooms  this  morning 
that  he  went  away  last  night? 

PAULINE.      Yes  —  to  Nice. 

MONTRICHARD.      But  why  without  you? 

PAULINE.  I  remain  to  negotiate  with  the  honourable  family 
for  an  amicable  separation. 

MONTRICHARD.      Which  you  hope  to  obtain? 

PAULINE.  Which  I  am  sure  to  obtain.  There  is  an  ele- 
ment of  chance,  because  I  intend  to  impose  my  own  conditions; 
but  since  yesterday  I  have  found  very  persuasive  arguments,  and 
I  assure  you  everything  will  be  arranged.  They  thought  that 
when  I  entered  their  family  I  dishonoured  it!      Watch  my  exit! 

MONTRICHARD.      But  why  didn't  Baudel  wait  for  you? 

PAULINE.  First,  I  wanted  to  get  some  precious  possessions 
Scife  out  of  the  way.      He  took  them  with  him. 

MONTRICHARD.      Your  diamonds? 

PAULINE.  Other  things,  too.  Then  he  must  find  a  place 
for  me  to  stay.  Do  you  think  I  want  to  stop  at  a  hotel?  I'm 
tired  of  this  life  of  the  past  eighteen  months.  I'm  going  to 
make  up  for  lost  time,  make  no  mistake  about  that! 

MONTRICHARD.  Poor  Baudel!  Be  a  good  girl,  now. 
Countess,  and  don't  ruin  the  boy! 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  53 

PAULINE.  He  will  get  just  what  he  deserves,  he,  the  prince 
of  fools! 

MONTRICHARD.      But  he's  a  dear  child. 

PAULINE.  Think  so?  Do  you  know,  he  had  the  audacity 
to  claim  that  he'd  once  been  Olympe  Taverny's  lover? 

MONTRICHARD.  While  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  only  belonged 
to  the  number  of  those  who  had  not? 

PAULINE.      Now,  now 

MONTRICHARD.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Countess  —  if  I  dare 
still  call  you  by  that  name? 

PAULINE.  You  may  dare,  old  man;  I'm  not  going  to 
drop  it. 

MONTRICHARD.       Maybe  the  Puygirons  will  drop  it  for  you? 

PAULINE.  I'd  rather  give  up  my  money.  Their  name's 
a  gold  mine,  dear. 

MONTRICHARD.  But  what  if  they  offered  some  compensa- 
tion? 

PAULINE.  They?  Poor  people!  I  don't  advise  them  to. 
I  tell  you  I  have  them! 

MONTRICHARD.      So  tight  as  that? 

PAULINE.  Yes.  I've  not  lost  much  time  since  you've 
been  away:   I've  been  working  this  last  week. 

MONTRICHARD.      Oh,  don't  tell  me 

PAULINE.  You're  afraid  of  being  dragged  in  as  an  accom- 
plice? 

'MONTRICHARD.      I  want  to  be  nothing  in  all  this  business 
but  a  sort  of  good  genius  —  and  then 

PAULINE.      Then?      What  do  you  mean? 

MONTRICHARD.      That    this    marriage    of    mine Well, 

I'm  not  so  anxious  about  it  now. 

PAULINE.      What! 

MONTRICHARD.  I'm  not  ready  to  make  a  fool  of  myself 
that  way  until  I  have  nothing  left  with  which  to  commit  more 
follies.  Now  I  have  cash.  In  the  second  place,  I  don't  think 
the  young  lady  is  especially  attracted  to  me.  If,  therefore,  she 
were  forced  to  take  me  for  want  of  a  better,  she  would  have  her 


54  OLYMPFS  MARRIAGE 

revenge  on  me!  I  should  be  paying  dear!  I'd  rather  she  went 
into  a  convent  than  I! 

PAULINE.  I  shan't  insist,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that  light. 
And  I  must  say  the  child  doesn't  love  you  —  she  loves  someone 
else. 

MONTRICHARD.      I  suspected  it. 

PAULINE.  Do  you  know  who  that  someone  else  is?  I  give 
you  a  hundred  guesses.  —  My  husband! 

MONTRICHARD.      Who  said  so?      She? 

PAULINE.      She  has  no  idea  I  know. 

MONTRICHARD.      How  did  this  hopeless  love  take  root? 

PAULINE.  It's  not  hopeless  —  that's  the  nicest  part  of  the 
business.  She's  taken  it  into  her  head  that  I'm  a  consumptive, 
that  I  haven't  more  than  six  months  to  live.  I  don't  know 
where  she  got  that  idea! 

MONTRICHARD.      £To  himself]     I  wonder! 

PAULINE.  And  she's  waiting  for  my  death  with  angelic 
serenity.  That's  the  way  with  these  angels!  Dealers  in 
morality!  Good  Lord,  we're  better  than  they!  Don't  you 
think  so? 

MONTRICHARD.  Well,  between  the  person  who  sets  a  trap 
and  the  one  who  allows  himself  to  be  caught  there's  hardly  a 
hair's  difference.      So,  I  get  off  scot-free,  thanks  to  you 

PAULINE,  And  now  that  you  know  how  matters  stand,  be 
good  enough  to  go  away.  My  dressmaker  is  waiting  for  me: 
I  must  have  a  serious  talk  with  her.  You  don't  have  to  think 
hard  to  know  I'm  not  going  to  show  off  on  the  Promenade  des 
Anglais  those  monastic  weeds  that  captured  simple  Henri's 
heart! 

MONTRICHARD.      Shall  I  see  you  again,  then? 

PAULINE.  In  this  family,  no,  but  I  have  a  notion  you'll 
walk  into  Nice  some  day  and  want  to  be  set  on  your  feet  again. 

MONTRICHARD.  That  reminds  me!  [^Taking  out  his 
pocketbool(]  Will  you  do  me  a  favour?  Take  this  check  on  the 
Bank  of  France  to  Baudel.  I  intended  to  give  it  to  him  this 
morning  as  soon  as  he  was  up 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  55 

PAULINE.      For  fifty  thousand  francs?      What  is  this? 

MONTRICHARD.      A  loan. 

PAULINE.  Do  you  still  continue  to  pay  your  debts,  you 
overgrown  child? 

MONTRICHARD.       None  of  us  is  perfect! 

PAULINE.  If  I  were  you,  Baron,  I  should  keep  that  little 
check  —  for  a  rainy  day. 

MONTRICHARD.  No,  no,  it  might  rain  on  me  before  it  does 
on  him,  and  I  should  be  forced  to  use  it.  Let  us  keep  our 
honour  intact! 

PAULINE.  Take  this  back.  I  don't  like  to  carry  scraps 
of  paper  worth  so  much. 

MONTRICHARD.  Very  well.  I'll  send  it  through  the 
banker.      Goodby,  Contesina.      [_He  l^^isses  her  hanJ^ 

PAULINE.  Goodby,  Baronino.  [//c  goes  out]  What  a 
queer  mixture!  I  thought  he  had  more  backbone!  Really, 
I  think  there  is  no  perfect  man! 

GENEVlfcVE  comes  in,  looking  for  something. 

PAULINE.      Good  morning,  Genevieve. 

GENEVIEVE.  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  see  you!  How 
are  you  this  morning? 

PAULINE.      Very  well,  as  usual. 

GENEVlfcVE.      As  usual! 

PAULINE.      Were  you  looking  for  something? 

GENEVlfeVE.      A  little  gold  key  I  lost  yesterday. 

PAULINE.  The  key  to  the  famous  box?  The  key  to  your 
heart? 

GENEVIEVE.      That's  the  one. 

PAULINE.      I  told  you  someone  would  steal  it. 

GENEVlfcVE.      Oh,  I'll  find  it. 

PAULINE.  \_Putting  on  her  hat\  You  can  find  everything 
except  lost  time 

GENEVIEVE.      Are  you  going  out? 

PAULINE.      To  the  dressmaker's. 

GENEVlfeVE.      Can  you  think  of  dresses ? 


56  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

PAULINE.      This  is  a  happy  day  for  me. 

GENEVl£VE.      You're  better,  then? 

PAULINE,      Little  Miss  Obstinate,  I'm  as  healthy  as  possible. 

GENEVlfcVE.  You  said  something  very  different  the  other 
day. 

PAULINE.  No  matter  what  happens,  don't  forget  that  you've 
sworn  never  to  repeat  a  single  word  of  what  I  told  you. 

GENEVlfeVE.  It's  not  fair  to  make  me  promise  that  — 
please  don't  keep  me  to  it. 

PAULINE.  I  must.  If  you  talk  too  much  to  your  grand- 
parents about  me,  they're  likely  to  want  to  look  after  my  welfare 
a  Httle  too  carefully.  I  couldn't  remain  here!  Now,  let's  say 
nothing  more  about  it. 

GENEVlfcVE.      But  I  shall  at  least  have  done  all  I  could? 

PAULINE.  Yes,  your  conscience  may  be  clear!  See  you 
later,  angel.      \jShe  goes  ouQ 

GENEVl£VE.  I  have  an  idea  —  but  how  can  I  open  the 
subject  with  grandfather  and  grandmother?  \^She  sits  down,  her 
head  resting  on  her  hand.  She  is  plunged  in  thought^  Oh, 
Henri!      My  dear  Henri! 

The  MARQUIS  and  the  MARQUISE  come  in. 

MARQUIS.  [Pointing  to  GENEVIEVE]  What  is  she  thinking 
about?      Statue  of  meditation! 

MARQUISE.      She  looks  very  sad. 

MARQUIS.      Very.  —  What's  the  trouble,  dear? 

GENEVIEVE.      [_Startled~\     I  didn't  know  you  were  there! 

MARQUISE.  Didn't  you  hear  us  come  in?  What  awful 
thought  was  absorbing  you  so? 

MARQUIS.      Has  someone  troubled  you? 

GENEVIEVE.      Oh,  no. 

MARQUISE.      Do  you  want  anything? 

GENEVI&VE.      No.      [Interrupting  her self2    That  is 

MARQUIS.  That  is  —  yes.  Come  now,  don't  sulk  —  what 
is  it? 

GENEVl£VE.      I  want  to  see  Italy! 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  57 

MARQUIS.      What?      Italy  —  right  off,  at  once? 

GENEVIEVE.  It's  the  spleen  —  I  don't  like  Vienna.  I'll 
be  sick  if  I  stay  here  any  longer. 

MARQUISE.      How  long  have  you  felt  this  way? 

GENEVIEVE.  For  a  long  time.  I  didn't  intend  to  say 
anything  about  it  —  I  hoped  I  should  get  over  the  feeling.  But 
it  only  gets  worse.      Please  —  take  me  to  Rome! 

MARQUIS.      This  isn't  reasonable! 

MARQUISE.      Silly  idea  of  a  spoiled  child! 

GENEVl£,VE.  No,  I  declare  it  isn't.  I  must  make  that  trip. 
I  don't  usually  take  advantage  of  your  kindness,  do  I?  You 
don't  know  what  it's  costing  me  now  to  ask  you  to  break  in  on 
your  quiet  life,  your  regular  habits 

MARQUIS.  Oh,  our  habits!  The  main  consideration  is 
that  you  should  be  happy,  and  it  seems  that  you  are  not  that 
here.      What  do  you  say,  Madame? 

MARQUISE.      We  are  at  home  wherever  Genevieve  is  happy. 

GENEVI6.VE.  Well,  if  you  take  me  to  Rome,  I  promise 
to  sing  like  a  song-bird  from  morning  to  night;  you'll  have 
me  with  you  all  day;  there  won't  be  any  dances  to  deprive 
you  of  your  granddaughter.  We'll  have  such  a  good  time 
together! 

MARQUIS.      All  together! 

GENEVlfeVE.      You  can  teach  Pauline  and  me  whist. 

MARQUIS.      Is  Pauline  to  come? 

GENEVIEVE.  Of  course  —  it's  to  be  a  family  party!  Every 
evening  you'll  have  your  little  game  just  as  you  do  here,  only 
it'll  be  nicer.  I'll  be  your  partner  and  you  may  scold  me  every 
time  I  make  you  lose  a  king.  Here  you  don't  dare  scold  grand- 
mother! 

MARQUIS.  Well,  I  don't  say  no  to  that.  If  the  Marquise 
consents,  we'll  talk  it  over  later. 

GENEVIEVE.      Talk  it  over? 

MARQUIS.  We  must  have  some  time  to  become  accustomed 
to  the  idea. 

GENEVI&VE.      And  you  will  show  me  Rome  yourself,  grand- 


58  OLYMPES  MARRIAGE 

father.  All  young  women  go  there  with  their  husbands,  who 
explain  the  sights  to  them.      But  I'd  rather  go  with  you. 

MARQUISE.  She's  right,  dear;  we  should  take  advantage  of 
the  time  she  is  still  with  us. 

MARQUIS.  If  someone  had  told  me  an  hour  ago  that  we 
should  spend  the  winter  in  Rome  I  should  certainly  have  been 
surprised! 

GENEVIEVE.      Then  you  will?      Oh,  thank  you! 

MARQUISE.      She's  looking  better  already. 

GENEVl£VE.      When  do  we  leave? 

MARQUIS.      \Laughinf\    Give  me  my  cane  and  hat. 

MARQUISE.     How  much  time  will  you  give  us  to  get  ready? 

GENEVlLVE.  I'll  get  ready  for  you  —  you  have  only  to  step 
into  the  carriage. 

MARQUIS.      Give  us  a  week. 

GENEVlfcVE.  Too  long.  You'd  have  time  to  change  your 
mind! 

MARQUISE.      Four  days? 

GENEVl£VE.      Three. 

MARQUIS.      You'll  sing,  you  say,  from  morning  to  night? 

GENEVIEVE.  And  I'll  play  whist  with  you.  —  I'll  read  your 
paper.  —  I'll  do  anything  you  like!  I  do  love  you  so!  \_She 
throws  herself  into  his  arms'] 

MARQUISE.  Really,  I  like  the  idea  of  this  trip.  Shall  we 
leave  tomorrow? 

GENEVlfcVE.  I  gave  you  three  days  —  I'm  reasonable! 
We  must  have  time  to  persuade  Pauline  and  Henri. 

MARQUISE.      I  hardly  think  they'll  object. 

GENEVIEVE.  If  they  do  — well,  you're  the  head  of  the 
family,  grandfather;  use  your  authority. 

MARQUIS.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  the  head  of  the 
family! 

GENEVIEVE.  I  warn  you  now  that  if  Pauline  doesn't  come 
with  us,  I  shan't  go.  If  you're  anxious  for  the  trip  you  must 
induce  her  to  come,  too. 

MARQUIS.      Very  well.  Mademoiselle,  I  shall  make  use  of  my 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  59 

authority.      \^To  the  MARQUISE^     When  we  have  great-grand- 
children, they'll  make  us  walk  about  on  all  fours! 

A  servant  enters. 

SERVANT.  This  gentleman  [jshowing  carcQ  would  like  to  see 
M.  le  Marquis. 

MARQUIS.  [^Taking  the  carcf]  Mathieu  —  Adolphe.  I 
don't  know  him.      What  does  the  gentleman  look  like? 

SERVANT.  He  is  an  actor  I  once  saw  at  a  little  theatre  — I 
believe  he  is  the  same  one. 

MARQUIS.  What  can  he  want  with  me?  An  artist,  a 
Frenchman?      Ask  him  to  come  in.      \^The  servant  goes  ouij^ 

MARQUISE,  [ro  GENEVI&VE.]  Go  to  your  room.  [GENE- 
VIEVE goes  out'] 

ADOLPHE  comes  in. 

ADOLPHE.  Forgive  me  for  disturbing  you.  Monsieur  and 
Madame.  I  wished  to  see  Mme.  la  Comtesse,  but  she  is  out, 
and  I  took  the  liberty  of 

MARQUIS.  Very  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear  Monsieur  —  I 
have  always  had  a  liking  for  artists. 

ADOIPHE.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Monsieur,  but  it  is  not  as  an 
artist  that  I  come  to  see  you,  but  as  a  man.  You  see  before 
you  a  prodigal  son  who  was  drawn  to  the  footlights  by  an  irresis- 
tible sense  of  vocation,  but  who  in  leaving  the  stage  has  found 
again  the  position  and  manners  befitting  his  status. 

MARQUIS.  [_Dryly]  That  is  different.  —  What  can  I  do 
for  you? 

ADOLPHE.  Let  us  go  back  a  little,  if  you  please.  I  lately 
had  the  honour  of  sitting  at  your  table. 

MARQUIS.      My  table?      Are  you  dreaming.  Monsieur? 

ADOLPHE.  Not  in  the  least.  The  scene  —  there  is  no 
other  word  for  it  —  took  place  in  this  very  room.  There  is  the 
picture  which  we  illuminated.  [^Looking  at  the  MARQUISE] 
An  excellent  likeness,  Madame,  very  noble!  My  compliments! 
Good  portraits  are  so  rare  nowadays!  I  wanted  to  have  one 
of  Mme.  Mathieu 


60  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

MARQUIS.      Indeed,  Monsieur? 

MARQUISE.      When  was  this? 

ADOLPHE.      Last  Saturday. 

MARQUISE.  [^To  her  husbanf\  The  day  Mme.  Morin  came. 
We  were  dining  out. 

ADOLPHE.  Yes,  you  were  not  at  home.  There  were  four 
of  us;  your  charming  niece,  an  elderly  lady  —  very  distinguished 
looking  —  a  gay  gentleman,  and  your  humble  servant,  who  had 
the  good  fortune  to  happen  in  at  the  time. 

MARQUIS.      What  brought  you? 

ADOLPHE.      I  came  to  offer  a  box  for  my  benefit  performance. 

MARQUIS.  Then  why  not  come  to  the  point  at  once.  Mon- 
sieur? I  don't  go  to  the  theatre  any  longer,  but,  as  a  compa- 
triot, I  am  ready  to  subscribe. 

ADOLPHE.  Very  kind  of  you,  but  the  performance  took 
place  yesterday. 

MARQUIS.      Was  it  successful? 

ADOLPHE.      We  didn't  cover  expenses. 

MARQUISE,      I  see.      What  is  the  price  of  my  box? 

ADOLPHE.  I  was  not  asking  for  charity.  Monsieur.  My 
father  was  a  gentleman,  one  of  the  largest  hardware  merchants 
in  Paris. 

MARQUIS.  {_Smilini]  Noblesse  oblige!  I  had  no  inten- 
tion of  offending  you.  Monsieur. 

MARQUISE.      We  are  ready  to  offer  any  excuses. 

A[X)LPHE.      I  ask  for  none,  Madame. 

MARQUIS.  \Offering  him  a  chair~\  Sit  down.  [Ta\ing  his 
snuff-box  from  his  poc\d  and  handing  it  to  ADOLPHEJ  Will  you 
have  some  snuff? 

ADOLPHE.      Just  a  pinch. 

MARQUIS.      How  do  you  like  it? 

ADOLPHE.      It's  delicious!      So  —  where  was  I? 

MARQUIS.      At  the  table 

ADOLPHE.  Oh,  yes.  After  dinner,  I  was  asked  to  sing. 
Naturally,  I  couldn't  think  of  receiving  money  for  my  services, 
because  I  acted  in  my  capacity  of  man  of  the  world.      Then 


OLYMPES  MARRIAGE  61 

Mme.  la  comtesse  Induced  me  to  accept  this  pearl  —  as  a  present 
to  my  wife.      \_He  takes  the  pearl  from  his  pockeQ 

MARQUISE.  [^Quickly]  Let  me  see  it,  Monsieur.  [She 
takes  it7\    Didn't  this  belong  to  a  diamond  necklace? 

ADOLPHE.      Yes,  Madame. 

MARQUIS.      [To  himself}    Very  bad  taste  on  her  part!^ 

ADOLPHE.  I  wanted  to  keep  it  as  a  souvenir,  but  you  see 
I  was  counting  on  that  blessed  benefit  yesterday  to  pay  off  some 
debts 

MARQUIS.      Are  you  in  debt? 

ADOLPHE.  Gambling  debts.  [To  himself]  At  the  bakery! 
[To  the  other f\  They  fall  due  in  twenty-four  hours,  you  under- 
stand, so  that  I  had  to  take  this  to  the  jeweller's. 

MARQUIS.      And  he  told  you  what  it  was  worth? 

ADOLPHE.  Yes,  Monsieur.  Now,  I  can  hardly  believe  that 
Mme.  la  comtesse  intended  to  make  me  so  valuable  a  present. 

MARQUIS.      So  valuable! 

ADOLPHE.      The  jeweller  offered  me  a  thousand  florins. 

MARQUISE.  Then  it's  real.  [She  knocks  the  pearl  against 
the  table]    Yes,  it  is! 

MARQUIS.      What  does  this  mean? 

ADOLPHE.  What  do  you  think?  That  I  came  here  to  ask 
for  money?      Nothing  of  the  kind ! 

MARQUIS.  You  bring  it!  Shake  hands.  Monsieur,  you  are 
a  true  gentleman.  As  for  that  pearl,  my  niece  did  know  what 
she  was  doing  when  she  gave  it  to  you  —  it  is  yours.  But 
please  allow  me  to  buy  it  from  you.  I  should  like  to  return  it 
to  her. 

He  takes  some  bank-notes  from  his  pocketbook- 

ADOLPHE.      Ah,  M.  le  marquis! 

MARQUISE.  [To  the  MARQUIS]  Poor  fellow,  he's  so  em- 
barrassed! 

MARQUIS.  Since  you  seem  to  like  my  snuff,  allow  me  to 
present  the  box  to  you  —  as  a  souvenir.  [He  takes  out  his 
snuff-box] 


62  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

ADOLPHE.  M.  le  marquis,  I  promise  you  I  shall  always 
keep  it. 

MARQUIS.      Au  revoir,  my  friend. 

ADOLPHE.  Then  you  will  allow  me  to  come  and  see  you 
occasionally? 

MARQUIS.  Honest  people  like  yourself  are  always  welcome 
in  the  homes  of  honest  people  like  ourselves. 

ADOLPHE.  M.  le  marquis,  you  have  given  me  a  signal 
honour! 

MARQUIS.  [^Laughing]  The  Order  of  the  Snuff-box. 
[^ADOLPHE  goes  ouQ  A  fine  fellow  —  and  he  carries  away  with 
him  one  of  my  old-fashioned  prejudices.  [[hENRI  enters^ 
Here,  nephew,  give  this  pearl  to  your  wife,  and  ask  her  not  to 
play  any  more  tricks  on  us.  In  other  words,  ask  her  not  to 
try  to  deceive  us  with  any  more  paste  imitations ! 

HENRI.      [^Going  to  the  MARQUISE]     What's  this? 

MARQUISE.  This  pearl  is  real;  so  are  the  diamonds,  in  all 
probability. 

HENRI.      Then  why  did  she  lie  to  us? 

MARQUISE.  Probably  she  was  afraid  you  would  scold  her 
for  her  extravagance. 

HENRI.  I  gave  her  fifty  thousand  francs  with  which  to 
buy  jewels.  She  should  have  told  me  she'd  spent  some  of  the 
money  in  advance. 

MARQUISE.      False  pride,  perhaps. 

HENRI.      Possibly. 

MARQUIS.  Here  she  is.  I  shall  take  particular  pleasure 
in  making  it  embarrassing  for  her! 

Enter  PAULINE,  wearing  her  hat      HENRI  goes  to  the  left  and 
watches  her  intently. 

You're  just  in  time,  niece.  We  were  speaking  of  your  paste 
imitations  and  marvelling  at  the  immense  progress  in  chemistry. 
PAULINE.  J^Taking  off  her  hat  and  shawQ  Diamonds  are 
so  cleverly  imitated  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  distinguish 
the  artificial  ones  from  the  real. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 


63 


MARQUIS, 
PAULINE. 
jeweller's. 
MARQUIS. 
PAULINE. 


Will  you  show  me  your  necklace? 

I  haven't  it  any  longer  —  I  sent  it  back  to  the 


Why? 

Madame  told  me  that  the  Countess  de  Puygiron 
should  not  wear  artificial  jewels. 
MARQUISE.      Take  care,  child. 
HENRI.      Aunt! 

MARQUISE.     No,  I  don't  want  to  see  her  any  more  involved 
in  her  lie.      We  know  that  the  stones  are  real. 

Well  —  I  confess 

That  you  haven't  returned  them  to  the  jeweller's? 

I  did  return  them!      Yes!       I  was  afraid  the 

be   discovered  —  so    I    put   an   end   to  all   that 

How  much  did  you  lose  on  the  exchange? 

Nothing. 
Nothing  at  all? 

Of  course  not. 
Not  even  the  price  of  thiis  pearl?      []//e  shows  her 


PAULINE. 

MARQUIS. 

PAULINE. 
trick  would 
nonsense! 

HENRI. 

PAULINE. 

HENRI. 

PAULINE. 

HENRI. 
ihe  pearf] 

PAULINE.  iTo  herself^  The  devil!  [To  the  others']  I 
didn't  want  you  to  know  —  I  was  going  to  pay  for  it  out  of  my 
savings. 

HENRI.      Where  does  the  jeweller  live? 

PAULINE.      Never  mind,  I'll  see  to  it. 

HENRI.      Where  does  he  live? 

PAULINE.      Monsieur,  the  way  you  insist ! 

HENRI.      Answer  me  and  don't  lie! 

PAULINE.      Do  you  suspect  something? 

HENRI.  \y^iolentIy]  Yes,  I  suspect  that  these  diamonds 
were  given  you  by  M.  de  Beausejour! 

PAULINE.      Oh,  Henri! 

MARQUISE.      Remember,  she's  your  wife! 

HENRI.  If  I  am  mistaken,  let  her  give  me  the  address  of 
the  jeweller,  and  I'll  make  sure  J^t  once, 


64  OLYMPES  MARRIAGE 

PAULINE.  No,  Monsieur,  I  refuse  to  stoop  in  order  to  justify 
myself.      Your  suspicion  is  too  vile.      Believe  what  you  like. 

HENRI.  You  forget  that  you  have  no  right  to  be  so  haughty 
about  it. 

PAULINE.      And  why,  if  you  please?      I  defy  you  to  say  I 

HENRI.      You  defy  me? 

MARQUIS.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,  my  boy. 
It  is  very  wrong,  of  course,  for  yotir  wife  to  be  so  obstinate,  but 
what  the  devil!  think  of  it;  you're  accusing  her  of  an  infamy! 

MARQUISE.  [To  PAULINE]  Pauline,  take  pity  on  himl 
He  doesn't  know  what  he  is  saying.      Prove  that  he's  wrong. 

PAULINE.      No,  Madame,  I  shan't  say  another  word. 

HENRI.      She's  vile!      She  sold  herself! 

MARQUIS.  Henri,  your  conduct  is  not  that  of  a  gentleman! 
Ask  your  wife's  pardon. 

HENRI.  I  beg  your  pardon  —  all  of  you!  That  woman  is 
Olympe  Taverny!  \_Thc  MARQUIS  is  thunderstruck.  The 
MARQUISE  stands  at  his  side.  PAULINE  is  at  the  right,  HENRI  at 
the  left.  HENRI  goes  to  his  uncle,  and  falls  to  his  ^nees^  Forgive 
me,  father,  for  having  dishonoured  the  name  you  bear,  for 
having  allowed  that  woman  to  impose  on  me,  for  having  polluted 
this  pure  house  by  her  presence! 

MARQUIS.       I  disown  you! 

MARQUISE.  But  he  loved  her  then,  and  thought  her  worthy 
of  us,  because  he  believed  her  worthy  of  himself.  This  marriage 
was  the  fault  of  his  youth,  not  a  crime  against  his  honour  as  a 
man.      Don't  disown  him,  dear  —  he  is  very  unhappy! 

After  a  pause,  the  MARQUIS  offers  his  hand  to  HENRI  and  helps  him 

rise,  without  looking  at  him. 

HENRI  kisses  his  aunt's  hands  profusely. 

HENRI.  A  duel  to  the  end  with  M.  de  Beausejour  now  — 
pistols  —  ten  paces! 

MARQUIS.  Good!  I'll  be  your  second!  [hENRI  goes 
out.  The  MARQUIS  opens  a  drawer  and  takes  out  a  case  of  pistols, 
which  he  places  on  the  table  in  silence^ 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  65 

PAULINE.  Don't  trouble  to  get  those  ready,  M.  le  marquis. 
Your  nephew  is  not  going  to  challenge  M.  de  Beausejour,  for 
the  excellent  reason  that  M.  de  Beausejour  left  Vienna  last 
night.  I  have  just  now  allowed  Henri  to  leave,  because  his 
presence  here  would  have  interfered  with  an  explanation  which 
we  are  going  to  have. 

MARQUIS.  An  explanation  between  us,  Mademoiselle? 
Your  explanation  will  be  made  in  court. 

PAULINE.  I  can  easily  imagine  that  you  would  like  to  drag 
me  into  court  —  that  is  what  I  should  like  to  discuss.  There 
is  one  point  which  you  know  nothing  of:   I  shall  enlighten  you. 

MARQUIS.      The  lawyer  will  see  to  that.      Leave  us. 

PAULINE.  Very  well.  [To  the  MARQUISE]  Will  you  be 
kind  enough  to  give  Mile.  Genevieve  this  gold  key?  She  has 
been  looking  for  it  since  yesterday. 

MARQUISE.      The  key  to  the  box? 

PAULINE.      Which  contains  the  record  of  her  heart's  history. 

MARQUISE.      How  do  you  happen  to  have  it? 

PAULINE.  I  simply  took  it.  Indelicate  of  me,  was  it  not? 
You  see,  I  have  not  been  well  brought  up.  I  thought  I  should 
find  in  that  box  just  the  weapons  I  might  need  some  day.  —  I 
was  not  mistaken.  Will  Mme.  la  marquise  be  pleased  to  hear 
some  extracts?      \^She  gives  the  MARQUISE  a  slip  of  paper] 

MARQUIS.      Another  blackguardly  trick! 

PAULINE.  A  rather  brutal  way  of  putting  it!  But  I  am 
not  one  to  defend  your  granddaughter! 

MARQUISE.  [^Unfolding  the  paper]  This  isn't  her  hand- 
writing! 

PAULINE.  You  don't  think  I'm  foolish  enough  to  let  you 
have  the  original?      That  is  in  safe-keeping,  in  Paris.  —  Read. 

MARQUISE.  {^Reading]  "April  17.  —  What  is  happening 
to  me?      Henri  doesn't  love  Pauline  any  more.      He  loves   me 


MARQUIS.      [_To  his  wife]    Would  Henri  be  so ! 

PAULINE.       Undignified   as   to   make   love   to   his   cousin? 
Looks  like  it,  doesn't  it?      But  you  needn't  worry:   I  told  her. 


66  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

MARQUIS.      You,  Madame? 

PAULINE.      And  I  told  no  more  than  the  truth. 

MARQUIS.      l^To  his  wife^     Does  Henri  love  his  cousin? 

MARQUISE.      l^ReadmgJ     "  I  love  him.      Oh,  now  I  am  sure 

I  have  never  felt  otherwise  toward  him "      Poor  dear!  — 

"God  have  pity  on  me!  That  love  is  a  crime!  Grant  me  the 
power  to  tear  it  from  my  heart!  I  considered  him  dead!  Why 
has  he  come  back  again?" 

MARQUIS,      [ro  PAULINE]     Yes,  why? 

PAULINE.      Continue,  you  will  hear! 

MARQUISE.  [^Reading]  "April  20.  —  My  heart  is  deeply 
troubled:  what  can  I  do  with  this  love  —  which,  after  all,  might 
become  legitimate?  He  will  always  feel  remorse.  He  is 
dishonoured  by  the  fearful  hope  which  he  feels  —  in  spite  of  me. 
But  is  it  my  fault  if  Pauline  cannot  recover  from  the  illness  that 
is  killing  her?" 

MARQUIS.       You  again?      [PAULINE  hows] 

MARQUISE.  That  is  why  she  wanted  to  have  us  all  to  go  to 
Italy! 

MARQUIS.  [To  PAULINE]  If  a  man  were  capable  of  such 
infamy,  I'd  shoot  him  like  a  dog!  But  a  woman,  it  seems, 
may  do  anything! 

PAULINE.  [^To  the  MARQUIS,  smiling]  It  is  most  fortunate 
that  we  have  the  privileges  accorded  us  by  reason  of  our  weak- 
ness, you  must  admit.  But  to  return  to  your  granddaughter:  I 
think  the  reading  of  her  little  romance  will  attract  more  admirers 
than  husbands.  Don't  worry,  though,  I  shan't  publish  this 
precious  document  unless  you  force  me  to  —  and  you  won't 
do  that,  I'm  sure. 

MARQUIS.      Make  your  conditions,  Madame. 

PAULINE.  At  last,  thank  God,  you  are  reasonable.  I  shall 
follow  suit.  All  I  ask  is  an  amicable  separation,  and  that  I 
keep  the  money  agreed  on  in  my  contract. 

MARQUIS.      You  will  not  use  our  name? 

PAULINE.      Oh,  M.  le  marquis,  I  realise  its  value! 

MARQUIS.      We  shall  pay  you! 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  67 

PAULINE.  You  are  not  rich  enough.  And  what  would 
you  think  of  me  for  selling  the  title?  No,  I  have  it  and  I  intend 
to  keep  it.  An  amicable  separation  cannot  take  from  me  what 
a  legal  one  cannot  —  you  must  at  least  be  just. 

MARQUISE.  [To  her  husband^  She  has  us  bound,  hand  and 
foot! 

MARQUIS.      Very  well! 

PAULINE.  Now  we  are  agreed.  You  must  arrange  it  all 
with  Henri.  I'll  rid  you  of  my  company  at  once.  [She  turns 
to  go] 

MARQUIS.  One  moment  —  first  we  must  have  Genevieve's 
diary. 

PAULINE.      I  told  you  it  was  in  Paris. 

MARQUIS.  Write  to  the  receiver  of  stolen  goods  to  return 
it  at  once. 

PAULINE.  Nothing  is  simpler.  But,  really,  if  I  give  up  my 
only  weapon,  what  guarantee  shall  I  have ? 

MARQUIS.      My  word  as  a  gentleman. 

PAULINE.  Good;  between  people  of  honour  a  given  word 
is  enough.  Well,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  shall  not  misuse 
my  precious  treasure.      What  would  be  the  good  for  me? 

MARQUIS.  The  pleasure  of  revenge.  You  must  hate  us, 
for  you  realise  how  we  despise  you. 

PAULINE.      Is  that  the  way  you  hope  to  persuade  me? 

MARQUISE.  The  Marquis  uses  strong  expressions  —  it's 
very  wrong  of  him.  Be  kind,  Madame!  Please,  for  our 
dear  grandchild's  sake,  take  pity  on  our  gray  hairs!  I  shall 
pray  for  you! 

PAULINE.      [Smiling]    Good  for  evil,  Madame! 

MARQUIS.  That  will  do.  Marquise!  [He  passes  in  front 
of  PAULINE,  Without  looking  at  her.  To  the  MARQUISE]  Leave 
me  alone  with  her. 

MARQUISE.      But,  my  dear 

MARQUIS.  [Conducting  the  MARQUISE  to  the  door]  Leave 
us!  [The  MARQUISE  goes  out.  The  MARQUIS  sends  her  a  long 
kiss  with  his  two  hands,  and  comes  down-stage  again] 


68  OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE 

PAULINE.      You're  pale,  M.  le  marquis. 

MARQUIS.  \_His  arms  crossed  as  he  stands  immotahle\  You 
would  be  paler  than  I  if  you  knew  what  I  was  thinking! 

PAULINE.      Ah,  threats? 

MARQUIS.  \_Slowly~\  We  have  begged,  but  there  was  no 
use.  My  dear  saint  of  a  wife  has  prostrated  herself  before 
you. 

PAULINE.      Well? 

MARQUIS.      \_Ahout  to  seize  her~\    Well,  you   damned ! 

Qf^e  slops^  Our  salvation  lies  in  our  own  hands  now, 
understand? 

PAULINE.      I'm  not  afraid;  I've  gagged  bigger  men  than  you. 

MARQUIS.      [_Staccato}      Write  as  I  dictate. 

PAULINE.  [_Shrugging  her  shoulders^  You're  dawdling. 
Marquis. 

MARQUIS.  Write  this  instant,  do  you  hear  me?  Tomorrow 
will  be  too  late! 

PAULINE.      Because? 

MARQUIS.  Because  if  once  my  granddaughter's  secret  is 
known,  the  only  possible  reparation  will  be  her  marriage  with 
your  husband,  and,  by  God,  if  that  happens,  she  shall  marry 
him! 

PAULINE.  [^Smiling']  You  mean  that  you'll  —  suppress 
me?  My  dear  Monsieur,  do  you  take  me  for  a  child?  \^She 
tries  to  go\ 

MARQUIS.      [^Laying  his  hand  on  the  pistols^     Take  care! 

PAULINE.  Why?  Don't  mind  about  those  pistols — 
they're  not  loaded.  Now  let's  stop  trifling  —  you're  bound 
to  lose  in  the  end. 

MARQUIS.  [Composing  himself]  Write  as  I  tell  you,  and 
I  will  give  you  half  a  million  francs. 

PAULINE.      You  offer  to  buy  my  artillery  on  the  day  of 

battle?      Your    humble    servant.      Adieu,    dear    Uncle 

\jShe  goes  toward  the  door  at  the  left] 

MARQUIS.  [Taking  up  a  pistol]  If  you  try  to  pass  that 
door,  I  will  kill  you. 


OLYMPE'S  MARRIAGE  69 

PAULINE.  \_0n  the  threshold,  as  she  hums  an  air  Jrom  "  Les 
Eiudiants  " ;]] 

When  you  make  love  to  a  little  girl 
And  compromise  her  

MARQUIS.  \^Fires.  PAULINE  screams  and  falls,  outside  the 
door.  The  MARQUIS  tal^es  another  pistol  and  loads  it^  God  is 
my  judge! 

CURTAIN 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

[le  gendre  de  m.  poirier] 

A  COMEDY   IN  FOUR  ACTS 
BY  EMILE  AUGIER  AND  JULES  SANDEAU 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

POIRIER. 

GASTON,  MARQUIS  DE  PRESLES. 

HECTOR,  DUKE  DE  MONTMEYRAN. 

VERDELET. 

ANTOINETTE. 

SALOMON. 

CHAVASSUS.  Creditors 

COGNE. 

VATEL. 

THE  PORTER. 

A  SERVANT. 


The  action  takes  place  in  the  home  of  M.  Poirier.  at  Paris. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 


FIRST  ACT 

A  very  richly-furnished  drawing-room.  There  are  doors  on  either 
side,  and  windows  at  the  hack,  looking  out  upon  the  garden. 
There  is  a  fireplace  in  which  a  fire  is  burning. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  a  SERVANT  and  the  DUKE  are  discovered, 

SERVANT.  I  repeat,  Corporal,  Monsieur  le  marquis  cannot 
possibly  receive  you.      He  is  not  up  yet. 

DUKE.  At  nine  o'clock!  [^/isrWe]  Ha,  the  sun  rises  slowly 
during  the  honeymoon.  —  What  time  is  breakfast  served  here? 

SERVANT.      At  eleven,  but  what  business  is  that  of  yours? 

DUKE.      You  will  lay  another  place. 

SERVANT.      For  your  colonel? 

DUKE.      Yes,  for  my  colonel.      Is  this  today's  paper? 

SERVANT.      Yes:   February  15,  1846. 

DUKE.      Give  it  to  me. 

SERVANT.      I  haven't  read  it  yet. 

DUKE,  You  refuse  to  let  me  ha"e  it?  Well,  you  see,  don't 
you,  that  I  can't  wait?      Announce  me. 

SERVANT.      Who  are  you? 

DUKE.      The  Duke  de  Montmeyran. 

SERVANT.      Stop  your  joking! 

Enter  GASTON. 

GASTON.      Why,  it's  you!      \iThey  embrace'] 

SERVANT.      l^Aside']    The  devil!      I've  put  my  foot  in  it! 

DUKE.      My  dear  Gaston! 

GASTON.      My  dear  Hector!      I'm  so  glad  to  see  you! 

DUKE.      And  I  you! 


74  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.  You  couldn't  possibly  have  arrived  at  a  better 
time. 

DUKE.      How  do  you  mean? 

GASTON.  Let  me  tell  you  —  but,  my  poor  fellow,  the  way 
you're  rigged  up!  Who  would  recognize  under  that  tunic,  you, 
one  of  the  princes  of  youth,  the  perfect  model  of  prodigal  sons? 

DUKE.  Next  to  you,  old  man.  We've  both  settled  down; 
you  have  married,  I  have  become  a  soldier,  and  whatever  you 
think  of  my  uniform,  I  prefer  my  regiment  to  yours. 

GASTON.      [^Looking  at  the  DUKE'S  uniform]     Thank  you! 

DUKE.  Yes,  look  at  the  tunic.  It's  the  only  costume  that 
can  keep  me  from  boring  myself  to  death.  And  this  little 
decoration  which  you  pretend  not  to  notice  —  []//c  shouos  his 
corporal's  stripes] 

GASTON.      Stripes! 

DUKE.      Which  I  picked  up  on  the  field  of  Isly,  old  man  — 

GASTON.      And  when  will  you  get  the  star  for  bravery? 

DUKE.  My  dear  fellow,  please  let's  not  joke  about  those 
things.  It  was  all  very  well  in  the  past,  but  today,  the  Cross 
is  my  one  ambition.  I  would  willingly  shed  a  pint  of  my  blood 
for  it. 

GASTON.      You  are  a  real  soldier,  I  see! 

DUKE.  Yes  —  I  love  my  profession.  It's  the  only  one 
for  a  ruined  gentleman.  I  have  but  one  regret:  that  I  did  not 
enter  it  long  ago.  This  active  and  adventurous  life  is  infinitely 
attractive.  Even  discipline  has  its  pecuHar  charm:  it's  healthy, 
it  calms  the  mind  —  this  having  one's  life  arranged  for  one  in 
advance,  without  any  possible  discussion,  and  consequently, 
without  hesitation  and  without  regret.  That's  why  I  can  feel 
so  carefree  and  happy.  I  know  my  duty,  I  do  it,  and  I  am 
content. 

GASTON.      Without  very  great  cost  on  your  part. 

DUKE.  And  then,  old  man,  those  patriotic  ideas  we  used  to 
make  fun  of  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris  and  call  chauvinism,  make  our 
hearts  swell  in  the  face  of  the  enemy.  The  first  cannon-shot 
knocks  forever  the  last  vestige  of  that  nonsense  out  of  our 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S SON-IN-LAW  75 

minds;  the  flag  then  is  no  longer  a  bit  of  cloth  at  the  end  of  a 
stick:  it  is  the  very  vesture  of  the  Patrie. 

GASTON.  That's  all  very  well,  but  this  enthusiasm  for  a 
flag  which  is  not  your  own 

DUKE.  Nonsense,  you  can't  see  the  colour  in  the  midst  of 
the  powder  smoke. 

GASTON.  Well,  the  important  point  is  that  you  are  satisfied. 
Are  you  going  to  stay  in  Paris  for  some  time? 

DUKE.  Just  a  month.  You  know  how  I've  arranged  my 
manner  of  living? 

GASTON.      No  —  tell  me. 

DUKE.  Didn't  I?  It's  really  very  clever:  before  leaving,  I 
left  the  remains  of  my  fortune  with  a  certain  banker:  about  a 
hundred  thousand  francs,  the  income  from  which  allows  me 
during  a  month  in  the  year  to  live  as  I  used  to  live.  So  that  I 
live  for  one  month  at  a  six  thousand  francs'  rate,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  year,  on  six  sous  a  day.  Naturally,  I  have 
chosen  carnival  season  for  my  prodigalities.  It  began  yester- 
day, but  my  first  visit  has  been  to  see  you. 

GASTON.  Thanks!  But,  you  understand,  I  shan't  hear  of 
your  staying  anywhere  but  with  me? 

DUKE.      But  I  don't  want  to  be  in  the  way 

GASTON.  You  won't:  there's  a  small  pavilion  here,  at  the 
end  of  the  garden. 

DUKE.  To  be  perfectly  frank,  I'm  not  eifraid  of  you,  but  of 
myself.  You  see  —  you  lead  a  family  life  here:  there's  your 
wife,  your  father-in-law 

GASTON.  Ah,  you  imagine  that  simply  because  I  have 
married  the  daughter  of  a  retired  dry-goods  merchant  my  home 
is  a  temple  of  boredom,  that  my  wife  brought  with  her  a  heap 
of  bourgeois  virtues,  that  all  that  remains  for  me  to  do  is  write 
an  inscription  over  my  door:  "Here  lies  Gaston,  Marquis  de 
Presles."  Make  no  mistake,  I  live  like  a  prince  even,  race  my 
horses,  gamble  like  the  devil,  buy  pictures,  have  the  finest  chef  in 
Paris  —  the  fellow  pretends  he's  a  direct  descendant  of  Vatel, 
and  takes  his  art  ever  so  seriously  —  I  invite  whom  I  like  to 


76  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

meals  (by  the  way,  you'll  dine  with  all  my  friends  tomorrow, 
and  you'll  see  how  I  treat  them).  In  short,  marriage  has  not 
changed  me  in  the  least — except  it  has  done  away  with  creditors. 

DUKE.  So  your  wife  and  your  father-in-law  leave  you  free 
rein? 

GASTON.  Absolutely.  My  wife  is  a  nice  little  boarding- 
school  miss,  rather  pretty,  somewhat  awkward,  timid,  still 
wide-eyed  with  wonder  at  the  sudden  change  in  her  station  in 
life,  who  passes  the  greater  part  of  her  time,  I'll  warrant,  looking 
at  the  Marquise  de  Presles  in  her  mirror.  As  to  Monsieur 
Poirier,  my  father-in-law,  he  is  worthy  of  his  name.  Modest 
and  nutritious  like  all  fruit-trees,  he  was  born  to  play  the  part 
of  a  wall  fruit-tree.  His  highest  ambition  is  to  serve  as  a 
gentleman's  dessert:  that  ambition  is  now  satisfied. 

DUKE.      Come  now,  do  such  bourgeois  still  exist? 

HECTOR.  In  a  word,  he  is  Georges  Dandin  become  a 
father-in-law.  But,  really,  I've  made  a  magnificent  match 
of  it. 

DUKE.  I  can  well  believe  that  you  had  good  reasons  for 
contracting  this  misalliance. 

GASTON.  Judge  for  yourself.  You  know  the  desperate 
straits  I  was  in?  I  was  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  master 
of  a  fortune  at  twenty.  I  quickly  ran  through  my  patrimony, 
and  was  rapidly  running  up  a  capital  of  debts,  worthy  the  nephew 
of  my  uncle.  Now,  at  the  very  moment  when  that  capital 
reached  the  figure  of  five  hundred  thousand  francs,  thanks  to 
my  activities,  what  did  my  seventy-year  old  uncle  do  but  marry 
a  young  girl  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  him?  Corvisart  said 
that  at  seventy  one  always  has  children.  I  didn't  count  on 
cousins  —  well,  I  was  forced  to  do  so. 

DUKE.  And  then  you  occupied  the  position  of  honourary 
nephew. 

GASTON.  I  thought  of  taking  a  position  in  the  rank  of 
active  sons-in-law.  At  that  time  Heaven  sent  Monsieur  Poirier 
across  my  path. 

DUKE.      How  did  you  happen  to  meet  him? 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  77 

GASTON,  He  had  some  money  he  wanted  to  invest  —  it 
was  the  merest  matter  of  chance,  and  we  met.  I  lacked  suffi- 
cient guarantee  as  a  debtor,  but  I  offered  him  enough  for  a  son- 
in-law.  I  made  inquiries  about  his  person,  assured  myself  that 
his  fortune  had  been  honourably  acquired,  and  then,  by  Jove, 
I  married  his  daughter. 

DUKE.      Who  brought  you ? 

GASTON.  The  old  fellow  had  four  millions;  now  he  ha.s 
only  three. 

DUKE.      A  dowry  of  a  million? 

GASTON.  Better  still:  you'll  see.  He  agreed  to  pay  my 
debts.  By  the  way,  today  a  visible  proof  of  the  phenomenon 
can  be  seen,  I  believe.  It  was  a  matter  of  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs.  The  day  we  signed  the  contract  he  gave  me  stock 
which  will  net  me  an  income  of  twenty-five  thousand  francs: 
five  hundred  thousand  francs  more! 

DUKE.      There's  your  million.      And  then? 

GASTON.  Then?  He  insisted  on  not  being  separated  from 
his  daughter,  and  agreed  to  defray  all  household  expenses  so 
long  as  we  lived  in  his  home  with  him.  So  that,  after  receiving 
lodging,  heat,  carriages,  and  board,  I  still  have  an  income  of 
twenty-five  thousand  francs  for  my  wife  and  myself. 

DUKE.      Very  neat. 

GASTON.      Wait  a  moment. 

DUKE.      Something  else? 

GASTON.  He  bought  back  the  Chateau  de  Presles,  and  I 
expect  that  any  day  I  shall  find  the  deeds  under  my  plate  at 
breakfast. 

DUKE.      What  a  delightful  father-in-law! 

GASTON.      Wait  a  moment! 

DUKE.      What?      More? 

GASTON.  As  soon  as  the  contract  was  signed,  he  came  to 
me,  took  my  hands  in  his,  and  made  any  number^  of  excuses  for 
being  no  more  than  sixty  years  old;  but  he  assured  me  that  he 
would  hurry  on  to  the  age  of  eighty.  But  I'm  in  no  great  haste 
— he's  not  in  the  way,  the  poor  man.    He  knows  his  place,  goes 


78  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

to  bed  with  the  chickens,  rises  at  cock-crow,  keeps  his  accounts, 
and  is  ready  to  satisfy  my  every  whim.  He  is  a  steward  who 
does  not  rob  me;   I  should  have  to  look  long  to  find  a  better. 

DUKE.      Really,  you  are  the  most  fortunate  of  men. 

GASTON.  And  wait  —  you  might  imagine  that  my  marriage 
has  lessened  me  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  that  it  has  "taken  the 
shine  out  of  me,"  as  Monsieur  Poirier  says.  Never  worry,  I 
still  hold  my  place  in  the  social  world.  I  lead  in  matters  of 
fashion.  The  women  have  forgiven  me.  As  I  was  saying, 
you  have  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time. 

DUKE.      Why? 

GASTON.      Don't  you  understand  —  you,  my  born  second? 

DUKE.      A  duel? 

GASTON.  Yes,  a  nice  little  duel,  the  kind  we  used  to  have, 
in  the  days  of  our  youth.  Well,  what  do  you  say?  Is  the  old 
Marquis  de  Presles  dead?  Are  you  thinking  of  burying  him 
yet? 

DUKE.      Whom  are  you  fighting  with,  and  why? 

GASTON.  The  Viscount  de  Pontgrimaud  —  a  gambling 
quarrel. 

DUKE.      Gambling  quarrel?      Can't  it  be  decided  otherwise? 

GASTON.  Is  that  the  way  you  are  taught  to  regulate  affairs 
of  honour  in  the  regiment? 

DUKE.  Yes,  in  the  regiment.  There  we  are  taught  what 
use  to  make  of  our  blood.  But  you  can't  persuade  me  that 
you  must  shed  it  over  a  gambling  quarrel? 

GASTON.  But  what  if  this  particular  quarrel  were  only  a 
pretext?      What  if  there  is  something  else  —  behind  it? 

DUKE.      A  woman! 

GASTON.      That's  it. 

DUKE.      An  affair  —  so  soon?      That's  bad! 

GASTON.  How  could  I  help  it?  A  last  year's  passion  I 
had  imagined  dead  of  the  cold,  and  which,  a  month  after  my 
marriage,  had  its  Indian  Summer.  You  see,  there's  nothing 
serious  in  it,  and  no  cause  for  worry. 

DUKE.      And  might  I  know ? 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  79 

GASTON.  I  can  have  no  secrets  from  you:  the  Countess  de 
Mont  jay. 

DUKE.  My  compliments,  but  the  matter  is  serious.  I 
once  thought  of  making  love  to  her,  but  I  retired  before  the 
dangers  of  such  a  liaison  —  that  sort  of  danger  has  Httle  enough 
of  chivalry  in  it.  You  know,  of  course,  that  the  Countess  has 
no  money  of  her  own? 

GASTON.  That  she  is  waiting  for  the  fortune  of  her  aged 
husband;  that  he  would  have  the  bad  taste  to  disinherit  her 
in  case  he  discovered  her  guilt?     I  know  all  that. 

DUKE.  And  out  of  sheer  lightness  of  heart  have  you  imposed 
that  bond  on  yourself? 

GASTON.  Habit,  a  certain  residue  of  my  former  love,  the 
temptation  of  forbidden  fruit,  the  pleasure  of  cutting  out  that 
little  fool  Pontgrimaud,  whom  I  detest 

DUKE.      Why,  you're  doing  him  an  honour! 

GASTON.  What  else  can  I  do?  He  gets  on  my  nerves,  the 
little  imp;  he  imagines  that  he  is  a  noble  by  reason  of  his  knightly 
achievements,  simply  because  his  grandfather,  Monsieur 
Grimaud,  supplied  arms  to  the  government.  He's  a  Viscount, 
Heaven  knows  how  or  why,  and  he  imagines  that  he  belongs  to 
a  nobility  older  than  our  own.  He  never  loses  an  opportunity  to 
pose  as  champion  of  the  nobility,  and  tries  to  make  people  believe 
for  that  very  reason  that  he  represents  it.  If  a  Montmorency 
is  scratched,  he  howls  as  if  he  himself  had  been  hit.  I  tell  you 
there  was  a  quarrel  brewing  between  us,  and  last  night  it  came  to 
a  head  over  a  game  of  cards.  I'll  let  him  off  with  a  scratch: 
the  first  in  the  history  of  his  family. 

DUKE.      Has  he  sent  his  seconds  to  you? 

GASTON.  I  expect  them  at  any  moment.  You  and  Grand- 
lieu  will  help  me. 

DUKE.      Very  well. 

GASTON.      Of  course,  you  will  stay  here  with  me? 

DUKE.      Delighted. 

GASTON.  Though  this  is  carnival  season,  you  don't  intend 
to  parade  about  as  a  hero,  do  you? 


80  MONSIEUR  POIRIEKS  SON-IN-LAW 

DUKE.      No.      I  wrote  beforehand  to  my  tailor  — 


GASTON.  Shh!  I  hear  someone  talking.  It's  my  father- 
in-law.  You'll  now  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  him,  with  his 
old  friend  Verdelet,  a  former  partner.      You're  in  luck 

Enter  POIRIER  and  VERDELET. 

GASTON.      How  are  you,  Monsieur  Verdelet? 

VERDELET.     Your  servant,  Messieurs. 

GASTON.  A  dear  friend  of  mine,  my  dear  Monsieur  Poirier: 
the  Duke  de  Montmeyran. 

DUKE.      Corporal  of  the  African  Cavalry. 

VERDELET.      [_Asidi\      Indeed! 

POIRIER.      Most  honoured.  Monsieur  le  due! 

GASTON.  More  honoured  than  you  think,  dear  Monsieur 
Poirier:  for  Monsieur  le  due  has  been  good  enough  to  accept  the 
hospitality  which  I  offered  him. 

VERDELET.      \_Aside\    Another  rat  in  the  cheese! 

DUKE.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Momsieur,  for  accepting  an 
invitation  which  my  friend  Gaston  has  possibly  been  a  trifle 
too  hasty  in  offering, 

POIRIER.  Monsieur  —  le  marquis ,  my  son-in-law,  need 
never  feel  obliged  to  consult  me  before  inviting  his  friends  to 
stay  with  him  here.      The  friends  of  our  friends 

GASTON.  Very  well.  Monsieur  Poirier.  Hector  will  stay 
in  the  garden  pavilion.      Is  it  ready  for  him? 

POIRIER.      I  shall  see  to  it  at  once. 

DUKE.  I  am  very  sorry.  Monsieur,  to  cause  you  any 
annoyance 


GASTON.     None  at  all;    Monsieur  Poirier  will  be  only  too 

happy 

POIRIER.    Too  happy 


GASTON.      And  you  will  of  course  give  orders  that  the  little 
blue  coupe  be  placed  at  his  disposal? 

POIRIER.      The  one  I  usually  use ? 

DUKE.      Oh,  I  positively  refuse 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  81 

POIRIER.  But  I  can  easily  hire  one;  there  is  a  stand  at  the 
end  of  the  street. 

VERDELET.      [_Aside]      Fool!       Idiot! 

GASTON,  [ro  the  DUKE]  Now,  let  us  take  a  look  at  the 
stables.  Yesterday  I  got  a  superb  Arabian  —  you  can  tell  me 
what  you  think  of  him.      Come. 

DUKE.  [To  POIRIER]  With  your  permission.  Monsieur. 
Gaston  is  impatient  to  show  me  his  luxurious  surroundings.  I 
don't  blame  him.      He  can  then  tell  me  more  about  you. 

POIRIER.  Monsieur  le  due  is  well  acquainted  with  my  son- 
in-law's  delicate  nature  and  tastes. 

GASTON.  [^Aside  to  the  DUKE]  You'll  spoil  my  father-in- 
law!  [Going  toward  the  door,  and  stopping^  By  the  way. 
Monsieur  Poirier,  you  know  I  am  giving  a  grand  dinner  party 
tomorrow  night.  Will  you  give  us  the  pleasure  of  your 
company? 

POIRIER.      No,  thank  you  —  I  am  dining  with  Verdelet. 

GASTON.  Ah,  Monsieur  Verdelet,  I  am  very  angry  with  you 
for  carrying  off  my  father-in-law  every  time  I  have  company 
here. 

VERDELET.      [^Aside].      Impertinent! 

POIRIER.      A  man  of  my  age  would  only  be  in  the  way! 

VERDELET.      \^Aside]      You  old  Geronte! 

GASTON.  As  you  please,  Monsieur  Poirier.  \^He  goes  out 
with  the  duke] 

VERDELET.  I  tell  you,  that  son-in-law  of  yours  is  mighty 
obsequious  with  you.  You  warned  me  beforehand:  you'd 
know  how  to  make  him  respect  you. 

POIRIER.  I'm  doing  what  pleases  me.  I  prefer  to  be  loved 
than  feared. 

VERDELET.  You've  not  always  thought  that  way.  Well, 
you've  succeeded:  your  son-in-law  is  on  a  more  familiar  footing 
with  you  than  with  the  other  servants. 

POIRIER.  I  can  dispense  with  your  clever  remarks,  and  I 
advise  you  to  mind  your  own  business. 

VERDELET.      This  is  my  own  business,  I  tell  you!      Aren't 


82  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

we  partners?  Why,  we're  a  little  like  the  Siamese  twins. 
Now,  when  you  grovel  before  that  marquis,  I  have  a  hard  time 
keeping  my  temper. 

POIRIER.  Grovel!  As  if  —  ?  That  Marquis!  Do  you 
think  I  am  dazzled  by  his  title?  I've  always  been  more  of  a 
Liberal  than  you,  and  I  still  am.  I  don't  care  a  snap  of  my 
finger  for  the  nobility!  Ability  and  virtue  are  the  only  social 
distinctions  that  I  recognise  and  before  which  I  bow  down. 

VERDELET.      Is  your  son-in-law  virtuous? 

POIRIER.  You  make  me  tired.  Do  you  want  me  to  make 
him  feel  that  he  owes  everything  to  me? 

VERDELET.  Oh,  oh,  you  have  become  very  considerate  in 
your  old  age  —  the  result  of  your  economical  habits,  doubtless. 
Look  here,  Poirier,  I  never  did  approve  of  this  marriage;  you 
know  that  I  always  wanted  my  dear  goddaughter  to  marry  a 
man  from  our  own  class.      But  you  refused  to  listen  to  reason 


POIRIER.  Ha,  ha!  Listen  to  Monsieur!  That's  the  last 
straw! 

VERDELET.      Well,  why  not? 

POIRIER.  Oh,  Monsieur  Verdelet,  you  are  most  clever  and 
you  have  the  noblest  ideals;  you  have  read  amusing  books, 
you  have  your  own  ideas  on  every  subject,  but  in  the  matter 
of  commonsense,  I  can  give  you  enormous  odds. 

VERDELET.  Oh,  as  to  commonsense  —  you  mean  business 
sense.  I  don't  deny  that:  you've  piled  up  four  milHons,  while 
I've  barely  made  forty  thousand  a  year. 

POIRIER.      And  that  you  owe  to  me. 

VERDELET.  I  don't  deny  it.  What  I  have  I  owe  to  you. 
But  it  is  all  going  eventually  to  your  daughter,  after  your  son- 
in-law  has  ruined  you. 

POIRIER.      Ruined   me? 

VERDELET.      Yes  —  within  ten  years. 

POIRIER.      You're   crazy. 

VERDELET.  At  the  rate  he's  going  now,  you  know  only  too 
well  how  long  it  will  take  him  to  run  through  his  money. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  83 

POIRIER.      Well,  that's  my  business. 

VERDELET.  If  you  were  the  only  one  concerned,  I'd  never 
open   my   lips. 

POIRIER.  Why  not?  Don't  you  take  any  interest  in  my 
welfare?  You  don't  care  then  if  I  am  ruined?  I,  who  have 
made  your  fortune? 

VERDELET.      What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

POIRIER.      I  don't  like  ungrateful  people. 

VERDELET.  The  devil!  You're  taking  out  your  son- 
in-law's  familiarities  on  me.  I  was  going  to  say,  if  you  were 
the  only  one  concerned,  I  could  at  least  be  patient  about  it:  you 
aren't  my  godson,  but  it  happens  that  your  daughter  is  my 
goddaughter. 

POIRIER.      I  was  a  fool  to  give  you  that  right  over  her. 

VERDELET.  You  might  easily  have  found  someone  who 
loved  her  less. 

POIRIER.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  —  you  love  her  more  than  I 
do  —  I  know,  you  claim  that  —  and  you've  even  persuaded 
her 

VERDELET.  Are  we  going  to  quarrel  about  that  again? 
For  Heaven's  sake,  then,  go  ahead! 

POIRIER.  I  will  go  ahead!  Do  you  think  I  like  to  see 
myself  left  out,  pushed  aside  by  a  stranger?  Have  I  no  place 
in  my  own  daughter's  heart? 

VERDELET.      She  has  the  tenderest  affection  for  you 

POIRIER.  That's  not  so:  you've  taken  my  place.  All  her 
secrets,  all  her  nice  pleasing  little  ways  are  for  you. 

VERDELET.  Because  I  don't  make  her  afraid.  How  can 
you  expect  the  little  one  to  be  confidential  with  an  old  bear  like 
you?      She  can  never  find  an  opening,  you're  always  so  crabbed. 

POIRIER.  Well,  you  are  the  one  who  has  made  me  play  the 
part  of  a  kill-joy,  while  you  usurp  that  of  a  sugar-plum  father. 
It's  not  right  to  make  up  to  children  by  giving  in  to  all  their 
wishes  and  forgetting  what's  good  for  them.  That's  loving 
them  for  your  sake,  instead  of  for  theirs. 

VERDELET.      Now,  Poirier,  you  know  very  well  that  when 


84  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

the  real  Interests  of  your  daughter  were  at  stake,  her  whims  were 
opposed  by  me,  and  by  me  alone.  Heaven  knows,  I  went 
against  poor  Toinon's  wishes  in  this  marriage,  while  you  were 
ass  enough  to  urge  her  on. 

POIRIER.  She  was  in  love  with  the  Marquis.  —  Let  me 
read  my  paper.  \^He  sits  down  and  glances  through  the 
"  Constitutionnel"^ 

VERDELET.  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  the  child  was 
in  love:  you  forced  her  into  it.  You  brought  the  Marquis  de 
Presles  here. 

POIRIER.  [^Rising^  Another  one  has  arrived  at  the  top! 
Monsieur  Michaud,  the  iron  master,  has  just  been  appointed  a 
peer  of  France. 

VERDELET.      What  do  I  care? 

POIRIER.  What  do  you  care!  Does  it  make  no  difference 
to  you  to  see  a  man  of  our  class  arrive  at  the  top?  To  see 
the  government  honour  industry  in  calling  one  of  her  representa- 
tives into  its  midst?  Don't  you  think  it  admirable  that  we 
live  in  a  country  and  an  age  in  which  labour  opens  every  door? 
You  have  a  right  to  look  forward  to  becoming  a  peer  some 
day,  and  you  ask  "What  do  I  care?" 

VERDELET.  Heaven  preserve  me  from  aspiring  to  the  peer- 
age!     And  Heaven  preserve  my  country  when  I  become  a  peer! 

POIRIER.  But  why?  Can't  Monsieur  Michaud  fill  his 
position? 

VERDELET.  Monsieur  Michaud  is  not  only  a  business  man, 
but  a  man  of  great  personal  merit.  Moliere's  father  was  an 
upholsterer,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  every  upholsterer's  son 
should  believe  himself  a  poet. 

POIRIER.  I  tell  you,  commerce  is  the  true  school  for  states- 
men. Who  shall  lay  his  hand  on  the  wheel  unless  it  is  those 
who  have  first  learned  to  steer  their  own  barks? 

VERDELET.  A  bark  is  not  a  ship,  and  a  little  captain  is  not 
necessarily  a  true  pilot,  and  France  is  no  commercial  house. 
I  can  hardly  restrain  myself  when  I  see  this  mania  taking  root 
in  people's  minds.      I  declare,  you  might  imagine  that  states- 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  85 

manship  in  this  country  was  nothing  more  than  a  pastime  for 
people  who  have  nothing  else  to  do!  A  business  man  like  you 
or  me  attends  to  his  own  little  concerns  for  thirty  years;  he 
makes  his  fortune,  and  one  fine  day  closes  his  shop  and  sets 
up  business  as  a  statesman.  With  no  more  effort  than  that! 
Very  simple  receipt!  Good  Lord,  Messieurs,  you  might  just 
as  well  say:  "I  have  measured  so  many  yards  of  cloth,  and  I 
therefore  know  how  to  play  the  violin!" 

POIRIER.      I  don't  exactly  see  what  connection ? 

VERDELET.  Instead  of  thinking  about  governing  France, 
learn  to  govern  your  own  home.  Don't  marry  off  your  daugh- 
ters to  ruined  marquises  who  imagine  they  are  doing  you  an 
honour  in  allowing  you  to  pay  off  their  debts  with  your  own 
hard  cash 

POIRIER.      Are  you  saying  that  for  me ? 

VERDELET.      No;    for  myself! 

Enter  ANTOINETTE. 

ANTOINETTE.  How  are  you,  father?  How  is  everything? 
Hello,  godfather.  Are  you  going  to  have  lunch  with  us?  How 
nice  you  are! 

POIRIER.    He  is  nice.     But  what  am  I,  I  who  invited  him? 

ANTOINETTE.      You  are  charming. 

POIRIER.  But  only  when  I  invite  Verdelet.  Agreeable 
for  me! 

ANTOINETTE.      Where  is  my  husband? 

POIRIER.      In  the  stable.      Where  else  would  he  be? 

ANTOINETTE.  Do  you  blame  him  for  liking  horses?  Isn't 
it  natural  for  a  gentleman  to  like  horses  and  arms ? 

POIRIER.      Oh,  yes,  but  I  wish  he  cared  for  something  else. 

ANTOINETTE.  He  is  very  fond  of  the  arts:  poetry,  painting, 
music. 

POIRIER.      Huh,  the  agreeable  arts!  Pleasures! 

VERDELET.  Would  you  expect  him  to  care  for  unpleasant 
arts?  Would  you  want  him  to  play  the  piano? 

POIRIER.      There   you    are  again,   taking  his  part  before 


86  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

Toinon.  You're  trying  to  get  into  her  good  graces.  [^7o 
ANTOINETTE]  He  was  just  telling  me  that  your  husband  was 
ruining  me.      Didn't  you? 

VERDELET.  Yes,  but  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  pull  tight  your 
purse-strings. 

POIRIER.  It  would  be  much  simpler  if  the  young  man  had 
some  occupation. 

VERDELET.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  is  very  much  occupied 
as  it  is. 

POIRIER.  Yes:  spending  money  from  morning  till  night. 
I'd  prefer  a  more  lucrative  occupation. 

ANTOINETTE.      What,  for  instance?      He  can't  sell  cloth. 

POIRIER.  He  wouldn't  be  able  to.  I  don't  ask  for  so  very 
much,  after  all.  Let  him  take  a  position  that  befits  his  rank: 
an  embassy,  for  instance. 

VERDELET.  An  embassy?  You  don't  take  an  embassy 
the  way  you  take  cold. 

POIRIER.  When  a  man  is  called  the  Marquis  de  Presles,  he 
can  aspire  to  anything. 

ANTOINETTE.  But  on  the  other  hand,  father,  he  need  not 
aspire  to  anything. 

VERDELET.  That's  true.  Your  son-in-law  has  his  own 
ideas 

POIRIER.      Only  one:   to  be  lazy. 

ANTOINETTE.  That's  not  fair,  father:  my  husband  has  very 
fine  ideals. 

VERDELET.  At  least,  if  he  hasn't,  he  possesses  that  chival- 
rous obstinacy  of  his  rank.  Do  you  think  for  one  moment  that 
your  son-in-law  is  going  to  give  up  the  traditions  of  his  family, 
just  for  the  sake  of  changing  his  lazy  life? 

POIRIER.  You  don't  know  my  son-in-law,  Verdelet;  I 
have  studied  him  thoroughly  —  I  did  that  before  giving  my 
daughter  to  him.  He's  hare-brained,  and  the  lightness  of  his 
character  prevents  his  being  obstinate.  As  to  his  family 
traditions,  well,  if  he  had  thought  very  much  of  them  he  would 
never  have  married  Mademoiselle  Poirier. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  87 

VERDELET.  That  makes  no  difference.  It  would  have  been 
much  wiser  to  have  sounded  him  on  this  subject  before  the 
marriage. 

POIRIER.  What  a  fool  you  are!  It  would  have  looked  as 
if  I  were  making  a  bargain  with  him,  and  he  would  have  refused 
point-blank.  You  can't  get  things  of  that  sort  unless  you  go 
about  it  in  the  right  way,  slowly,  tenaciously,  perseveringly. 
He  has  been  living  here  this  past  three  months  on  the  fat  of 
the  land. 

VERDELET.  I  see:  you  wanted  to  make  it  pleasant  for  him 
before  you  came  down  to  business. 

POIRIER.  Exactly.  [To  ANTOINETTE]  A  man  is  always 
indulgent  toward  his  wife  during  the  honeymoon.  Now  if  you 
ask  him  in  a  nice  way  —  in  the  evening  —  when  you're  taking 
down   your   hair ? 

ANTOINETTE.      Oh,  father ! 

POIRIER.  That's  the  way  Madame  Poirier  used  to  get  me 
to  promise  to  take  her  to  the  Opera  —  I  always  took  her  the  next 
day.      See? 

ANTOINETTE.  But  I'd  never  dare  speak  to  my  husband  on 
so  serious  a  subject. 

POIRIER.  Your  dowry  will  surely  give  you  a  good  enough 
right  to  speak. 

ANTOINETTE.  He  would  only  shrug  his  shoulders,  and  not 
answer. 

VERDELET.      Does  he  do  that  when  you  talk  with  him? 

ANTOINETTE.      No,   but 

VERDELET.  Ah,  you  look  away!  So  your  husband  treats 
you  a  little ?      I've  been  afraid  of  that. 

POIRIER.      Have  you  any  reason  to  complain  of  him? 

ANTOINETTE.      No,  father. 

POIRIER.      Doesn't  he  love  you? 

ANTOINETTE.       I  don't  say  that. 

POIRIER.      Then  what  do  you  say? 

ANTOINETTE.      Nothing. 

VERDELET.      Come,  dear,  you  should  speak  frankly  with 


88  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

your  old  friends.  Our  whole  object  in  life  is  to  look  after 
your  happiness.  Whom  have  you  left  to  confide  in  unless 
it's  your  father  and  your  godfather?      Are  you  unhappy? 

ANTOINETTE.  I  haven't  the  right  to  be:  my  husband  is 
very  kind  and  good. 

POIRIER.      Well,  then? 

VERDELET.  But  is  that  enough?  He's  kind  and  good,  but 
he  pays  no  more  attention  to  you  than  to  some  pretty  doll, 
does  he? 

ANTOINETTE.  It's  my  fault.  I'm  so  timid  with  him;  I've 
never  dared  open  my  heart  to  him.  I'm  sure  he  thinks  me  a 
little  boarding-school  miss  who  wanted  to  become  a  marquise. 

POIRIER.      The  fool! 

VERDELET.      Why  don't  you  explain  to  him? 

ANTOINETTE.  I  tried  to  more  than  once,  but  the  tone  of 
voice  of  his  first  answer  was  so  different  from  what  I  thought  it 
should  be,  that  I  couldn't  continue.  There  are  certain  kinds 
of  intimacy  that  must  be  encouraged  —  the  heart  has  a  reticence 
of  its  own.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  understand  that,  dear 
Tony? 

POIRIER.  Well,  what  about  me?  Don't  I  understand, 
too? 

ANTOINETTE.  You,  too,  father.  How  can  I  tell  Gaston 
that  it  wasn't  his  title  that  pleased  me,  but  his  manners,  his 
mind,  his  knightly  bearing,  his  contempt  for  the  pettinesses 
of  life?  How  can  I  tell  him  that  he  is  the  man  of  my  dreams  — 
how  can  I  do  that  if  he  stops  me  at  once  with  some  joke? 

POIRIER.      That  shows  the  boy  is  in  a  good  humour. 

VERDELET.      No:  it's  because  his  wife  bores  him, 

POIRIER.      [ro  ANTOINETTE]     Do  you  bore  your  husband? 

ANTOINETTE.       I'm  afraid  I  do! 

POIRIER.  I  tell  you  it  isn't  you,  but  his  own  confounded 
laziness  that  bores  him.  A  husband  doesn't  love  his  wife 
very  long  when  he  has  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  love  her. 

ANTOINETTE.       Is  that  true,  Tony? 

POIRIER.      I'm  telling  you!      You  needn't  ask  Verdelet. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  89 

VERDELET.  Yes,  I  do  believe  that  passion  is  soon  exhausted 
unless  it  is  managed  like  a  fortune:   economically. 

POIRIER.  Every  man  wants  to  be  actively  engaged  in  some 
pursuit.      When  his  way  is  barred,  that  desire  is  wasted,  lost. 

VERDELET.  A  wife  should  be  the  preoccupation,  not  the 
occupation,  of  her  husband. 

POIRIER.  Why  did  I  always  adore  your  mother?  Because 
I  never  had  time  to  think  about  her! 

VERDELET.  Your  husband  has  twenty-four  hours  a  day  to 
love  you 

POIRIER.      That's  twelve  too  many. 

ANTOINETTE.      You're  opening  my  eyes. 

POIRIER.  Let  him  take  a  position,  and  everything  will  turn 
out  satisfactorily. 

ANTOINETTE.      What  do  you  say,  Tony? 

VERDELET.  Possibly!  The  difficulty  is  in  making  him 
take  the  position. 

POIRIER.  Leave  that  to  me.  Leave  the  matter  in  my 
hands. 

VERDELET.      Are  you  going  to  attack  the  question  at  once? 

POIRIER.  No,  but  I  shall  after  lunch.  I  have  noticed 
that  the  Marquis  is  in  splendid  humour  after  his  meals. 

Enter  GASTON  and  the  DUKE 

GASTON.  [Introducing  the  DUKE  to  his  wife']  My  dear 
Antoinette,  Monsieur  de  Montmeyran,  who  is  not  entirely 
unknown  to  you. 

ANTOINETTE.  Gaston  has  told  me  so  much  about  you. 
Monsieur,  that  I  seem  to  be  shaking  hands  with  an  old  friend. 

DUKE.  You  are  not  mistaken,  Madame;  you  have  made  me 
feel  that  only  a  moment  was  necessary  to  resume,  as  it  were,  a 
former  friendship.  [Aside  to  the  MARQUIS]  Your  wife  is 
charming! 

GASTON.  [Aside  to  the  DUKE]  Yes,  she  is  nice.  [To 
ANTOINETTE^  I  have  some  good  news  for  you:  Hector  is 
going  to  stay  with  us  during  his  leave. 


90  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

ANTOINETTE.  How  good  of  you.  Monsieur!  I  trust  your 
leave  is  a  long  one? 

DUKE.      One  month,  after  which  I  return  to  Africa. 

VERDELET.  You  afford  us  a  noble  example.  Monsieur  le 
due:  you  do  not  consider  laziness  a  family  inheritance. 

GASTON.      [_Aside]    Aha!      Monsieur  Verdelet! 

Enter  a  SERVANT,  carrying  a  picture. 

SERVANT.  This  picture  has  just  come  for  Monsieur  le 
marquis. 

GASTON.  Lay  it  on  that  chair,  by  the  window.  There  — 
good.      [^The  SERVANT  goes  out^     Just  look  at  it,  Montmeyran. 

DUKE.  Charming  —  beautiful  evening  effect!  Don't  you 
think  so,  Madame? 

ANTOINETTE.  Yes  —  charming  —  and  how  real  it  is!  And 
how  calm  and  quiet!  You  feel  as  if  you  would  like  to  walk 
about  in  that  silent  landscape. 

POIRIER.      \iA5ide  to  VERDELET]     Peer  of  France! 

GASTON.  Just  look  at  that  strip  of  greenish  light,  running 
between  the  orange  tones  of  the  horizon,  and  that  cold  blue  of 
the  rest  of  the  sky.      Splendid  technique! 

DUKE.  Then  the  foreground!  And  the  colouring,  the  hand- 
ling of  the  whole  thing! 

GASTON.  Then  the  almost  imperceptible  reflection  of  that 
little  spot  of  water  behind  the  foliage  —  charming! 

POIRIER.  Let's  take  a  look  at  it,  Verdelet.  [POIRIER  and 
VERDELET  go  to  look  at  the  picture']  Well?  What  does  it 
represent? 

VERDELET.  It  represents  some  fields  at  nine  o'clock  at 
night. 

POIRIER.  The  subject  isn't  interesting;  it  doesn't  tell 
anything.  In  my  room  I  have  an  engraving  showing  a  dog  on 
the  seashore  barking  at  a  sailor's  hat.  There  now,  you  can 
understand  that:  it's  clever,  and  simple,  and  touching. 

GASTON.  My  dear  Monsieur  Poirier,  if  you  like  touching 
pictures,  let  me  have  one  made  for  you;  the  subject  I  take  from 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  91 

nature:  on  the  table  is  a  little  onion,  cut  in  quarters,  a  poor 
little  white  onion.  The  knife  lies  beside  it.  Nothing  at  all, 
and  yet  it  brings  tears  to  the  eyes! 

VERDELET.      [^Aside  to  POIRIER]     He's  making  fun  of  you. 

POIRIER.      [^Aside  to  VERDELET]    Very  well  —  let  him! 

DUKE.      Who  painted  this  landscape? 

GASTON,  Poor  devil  —  lots  of  talent  —  but  he  hasn't  a 
sou. 

POIRIER.      What  did  you  pay  for  the  picture? 

GASTON.      Fifty  louis. 

POIRIER.  Fifty  louis?  For  the  picture  of  an  unknown 
painter  who  is  dying  of  hunger!  If  you'd  gone  around  at 
meal-time  you  could  have  got  it  for  twenty-five  francs. 

ANTOINETTE.      Oh,  father! 

POIRIER.      A  fine  example  of  misplaced  generosity! 

GASTON.  Then  you  don't  think  that  the  arts  should  be 
protected? 

POIRIER.  Protect  the  arts  as  much  as  you  like,  but  not  the 
artists  —  they're  all  rascals  or  debauchees.  Why,  the  stories 
they  tell  about  them  are  enough  to  raise  the  hair  on  your  head, 
things  I  couldn't  repeat  to  my  own  daughter. 

VERDELET.      [^Aside  to  POIRIER]     What? 

POIRIER.  [^Aside  to  VERDELET]  They  say,  old  man,  that  — 
[_He  tal^es  VERDELET  to  one  side  and  whispers  to  Aim] 

VERDELET.      And  do  you  believe  things  of  that  kind? 

POIRIER.  The  people  who  told  me  knew  what  they  were 
talking  about. 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.      Dinner  is  served. 

POIRIER,  [ro  the  SERVANT]  Bring  up  a  bottle  of  1811 
Pomard  —  \^To  the  DUKE]  The  year  of  the  comet,  Monsieur 
le  due  —  fifteen  francs  a  bottle!  The  king  drinks  no  better. 
[^Aside  to  VERDELET]     You  mustn't  drink  any —  neither  will  I! 

GASTON,  [To  the  DUKE]  Fifteen  francs,  ^bottle  to  be 
returned  when  empty! 


92  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

VERDELET.  [^Aside  to  POIRIER]  Are  you  going  to  allow 
him  to  make  fun  of  you  like  that? 

POIRIER.  [^Aside  to  VERDELET]  In  matters  of  this  sort, 
you  must  take  your  time.      [_They  all  go  ouQ 

CURTAIN 


SECOND  ACT 

The  scene  is  the  same.  As  the  curtain  rises,  VERDELET, 
POIRIER,  GASTON,  the  DUKE,  and  ANTOINETTE,  enter  from 
the  dining-room. 

GASTON.  Well,  Hector,  what  do  you  say?  This  is  the 
house,  and  this  is  what  we  do  every  mortal  day.  Can  you 
imagine  a  happier  man  on  earth  than  myself? 

DUKE.  I  must  confess  that  you  make  me  very  envious; 
you  almost  reconcile  me  to  the  idea  of  marriage. 

ANTOINETTE.  \^Aside  to  VERDELETJ  Charming  young  man, 
that  Duke  de  Montmeyran,  isn't  he? 

VERDELET.      l^Aside  to  ANTOINETTE]     Yes,  I  Hke  him. 

GASTON.  Monsieur  Poirier,  I  must  say,  you  are  an  excel- 
lent soul.  Believe  me,  I'm  not  in  the  least  ungrateful  to 
you. 

POIRIER.      Oh,  Monsieur  le  marquis! 

GASTON.  Come,  now.  call  me  Gaston.  Ah,  Monsieur 
Verdelet,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you. 

ANTOINETTE.      He  is  a  member  of  the  family,  dear. 

GASTON,      Shake  hands.  Uncle! 

VERDELET.  [^Shaking  hands  with  GASTON  —  aside']  He's 
not  so  bad  after  all! 

GASTON.  You  can't  deny.  Hector,  that  I'm  downright 
lucky.  Monsieur  Poirier,  something  has  been  weighing  on  my 
conscience.  You  know,  you  think  of  nothing  but  how  to  make 
my  existence  one  long  series  of  good  times.      Will  you  never 


MONSIEUR  POIRIEKS  SON-IN-LAW  93 

give  me  a  chance  to  repay  you?  Try,  now,  I  beg  you,  to  think 
of  something  I  might  do  for  you  in  return  —  anything  in  my 
power. 

POIRIER.  Well,  since  you're  in  so  good  a  humour,  let  me 
have  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  conversation  with  you  —  a  serious 
conversation. 

DUKE.      I  shall  be  glad  to  retire 

POIRIER.  Oh,  please  don't.  Monsieur;  be  good  enough  to 
stay  with  us.  This  is  going  to  be  a  kind  of  family  council. 
You  are  not  at  all  in  the  way,  any  more  than  is  Monsieur 
Verdelet. 

GASTON.  What  the  devil,  father-in-law!  A  family  council! 
Are  you  going  to  have  me  put  under  a  legal  advisor? 

POIRIER.  Far  from  it,  my  dear  Gaston.  Let  us  sit  down. 
\_They  all  seat  themselves.'} 

GASTON.      Monsieur  Poirier  has  the  floor. 

POIRIER.  You  say  you  are  happy,  my  dear  Gaston.  That 
is  the  finest  recompense  I  could  have. 

GASTON.  I  ask  nothing  better  than  to  increase  my  gratitude 
twofold. 

POIRIER.  You  have  spent  three  months  of  your  honeymoon 
in  the  lap  of  idleness  and  luxury,  and  I  think  that  that  part  of 
the  romance  is  enough.  It's  now  time  to  give  your  attention 
to  hard  facts. 

GASTON.  You  talk  like  a  book,  I  do  declare!  Very  well, 
let  us  give  our  attention  to  history. 

POIRIER.      What  do  you  intend  to  do? 

GASTON.      Today? 

POIRIER.  And  tomorrow  —  in  the  future.  You  surely 
have  some  idea? 

GASTON.  Of  course:  today  I  intend  to  do  what  I  did 
yesterday;  tomorrow  what  I  did  today.  I'm  not  capricious, 
even  though  I  may  appear  light-hearted.  So  long  as  the  future 
promises  to  be  as  bright  as  the  present,  I  am  content. 

POIRIER.  And  yet  you  are  far  too  reasonable  a  man  to 
believe  that  the  honeymoon  can  last  forever. 


94  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.  Exactly:  too  reasonable,  and  too  well  posted  an 
astronomy  —  but  of  course,  you  have  read  Heinrich  Heine? 

POIRIER.      You  have,  haven't  you,  Verdelet? 

VERDELET.       I  admit  I  have. 

POIRIER.      Yes,  he  passed  his  school-days  playing  truant. 

GASTON.  Well,  when  Heinrich  Heine  was  asked  what 
became  of  all  the  full  moons,  he  replied  that  they  were  broken 
in  pieces  and  made  into  stars. 

POIRIER.       I  don't  quite  see 

GASTON.  When  our  honeymoon  grows  old  we  shall  break 
it  up,  and  there  will  remain  enough  fragments  to  make  a  whole 
Milky  Way. 

POIRIER.      Very  pretty  idea,  I  suppose. 

DUKE.      The  sole  merit  of  which  is  its  extreme  simplicity. 

POIRIER.  But,  seriously,  son-in-law,  doesn't  this  lazy  life 
you  are  leading  seem  to  threaten  the  happiness  of  a  young 
household? 

GASTON.      Not  in  the  least. 

VERDELET.  A  man  of  your  ability  shouldn't  be  always 
condemned  to  a  life  of  inactivity. 

GASTON.      Ah,  but  one  can  resign  himself  to 

ANTOINETTE.  Aren't  you  afraid  that  in  time  you  may  be 
bored,  dear ? 

GASTON.      You  fail  to  do  yourself  justice,  my  dear. 

ANTOINETTE.  I  am  not  vain  enough  to  believe  that  I  can  be 
everything  in  your  life,  and  I  must  confess  that  I  should  be  very 
happy  to  see  you  follow  Monsieur  de  Montmeyran's  example. 

GASTON.      Do  you  mean  that  I  should  enlist? 

ANTOINETTE.      Oh,  no. 

GASTON.      Then,  what ? 

POIRIER.  We  want  you  to  take  a  position  worthy  of  your 
name. 

GASTON.  There  are  but  three:  in  the  army,  the  church, 
and  agriculture.      Choose. 

POIRIER.  We  all  owe  our  services  to  France:  she  is  our 
mother. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  95 

VERDELET.  I  can  readily  understand  the  sorrow  of  a  son 
who  sees  his  mother  re-marry;  I  can  sympathise  with  his  not 
joining  in  the  wedding  festivities;  but  if  he  is  honest  and  sincere, 
he  will  not  blame  the  mother.  And  if  the  second  husband 
makes  the  mother  happy,  the  son  cannot  with  a  good  conscience 
help  offering  the  second  husband  his  hand. 

POIRIER.  The  nobility  won't  always  keep  away  as  it  does 
now;  it's  even  beginning  to  recognise  the  fact  already.  More 
than  one  great  noble  has  given  a  good  example:  Monsieur 
de  Valchevriere,  Monsieur  de  ChazeroUes,  Monsieur  de  Mont- 
Louis. 

GASTON.  Those  gentlemen  did  what  they  thought  best. 
I  am  not  judging  them,  but  I  cannot  emulate  them. 

ANTOINETTE.      Why  not,  dear? 

GASTON.      Ask  Montmeyran. 

VERDELET.      Monsieur  le  due's  uniform  answers  for  him. 

DUKE.  Allow  me,  Monsieur:  the  soldier  has  but  one  idea: 
to  obey;  but  one  adversary:  the  enemy. 

POIRIER.      Still,  Monsieur,  I  might  answer  that 

GASTON.  Let  us  drop  the  subject.  Monsieur  Poirier;  this 
is  not  a  question  of  politics.  We  may  discuss  opinions,  never 
sentiments.  I  am  bound  by  gratitude:  my  fidelity  is  that  of 
a  servant  and  of  a  friend.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  this. 
\^To  the  duke]  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  fellow,  but  this  is 
the  first  time  we  have  talked  politics  here,  and  I  promise  it  will 
be  the  last. 

DUKE.  \^Aside  to  ANTOINETTE]  You  have  been  led  into 
an  indiscretion,  Madame! 

ANTOINETTE.  \^Aside  to  the  DUKE]  I  realise  it  — only 
too  late! 

GASTON.  I  bear  you  no  malice.  Monsieur  Poirier.  I  have 
been  a  trifle  direct,  but  I  am  dreadfully  thin-skinned  on  that 
subject,  and,  doubtless  without  intending  it,  you  have  scratched 
me.      I  don't  blame  you,  however.      Shake  hands. 

POIRIER.      You're  only  too  good! 

VERDELET.      [^Aside  to  POIRIER]    This  is  a  pretty  mess! 


96  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

POIRIER.  [^Aside  to  VERDELET]  First  attack  repulsed,  but 
I'm  not  lifting  the  siege. 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  There  are  some  people  in  the  small  waiting-room 
who  say  they  have  an  appointment  with  Monsieur  Poirier. 

POIRIER.  Very  well.  Ask  them  to  wait  a  moment.  I'll 
be  there  directly.  [^The  SERVANT  goes  ouQ  Your  creditors, 
son-in-law. 

GASTON.  Yours,  my  dear  father-in-law.  I  have  given 
them  to  you. 

DUKE.      For  a  wedding  present. 

VERDELET.      Goodby,  Monsieur  le  marquis. 

GASTON.      Are  you  leaving  us  so  soon? 

VERDELET.  Very  good  of  you.  Antoinette  has  asked  me 
to  do  something  for  her. 

POIRIER.      Well!      What? 

VERDELET.       It's  a  secret  between  us. 

GASTON.      You  know,  if  I  were  inclined  to  be  jealous 

ANTOINETTE.      But  you  are  not. 

GASTON.  Is  that  a  reproach?  Very  well,  Monsieur 
Verdelet,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  be  jealous,  and  I  ask  you 
in  the  name  of  the  law  to  unveil  the  mystery! 

VERDELET.  You  are  the  last  person  in  the  world  whom  I 
should  think  of  telling! 

GASTON.      And  why,  please? 

VERDELET.  You  are  Antoinette's  right  hand,  and  the  right 
hand  should  not  know  what 

GASTON.  The  left  gives.  You  are  right,  I  am  indiscreet. 
Allow  me  to  pay  my  indemnity.  \^He  gives  his  purse  to  ANTOI- 
NETTE]   Put  this  with  your  own,  my  dear  child. 

ANTOINETTE.      Thank  you  on  behalf  of  my  poor. 

POIRIER.      l^Aside^    He  is  mighty  generous! 

DUKE.  Will  you  allow  me,  too,  Madame,  to  steal  a  few 
blessings  from  you?  [^He  also  gices  her  his  purse^  It  is  not 
heavy,  but  it  the  corporal's  mite. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  97 

ANTOINETTE.      Offered  with  the  heart  of  a  true  duke. 

POIRIER.  [[/l5/(/e]  Hasn't  a  sou  to  his  name,  and  he  gives 
to  charity! 

VERDELET.      Aren't  you  going  to  add  something,  Poirier? 

POIRIER.  I've  already  given  a  thousand  francs  to  the 
charity  organization. 

VERDELET.  I  see.  Good  day.  Messieurs.  Your  names 
won't  appear  on  the  lists,  but  your  charity  won't  be  any  the 
less  good.      [_He  goes  out  with  ANTOINETTE] 

POIRIER.  See  you  later.  Monsieur  le  marquis;  I'm  going 
to  pay  your  creditors. 

GASTON.  Now,  Monsieur  Poirier,  simply  because  those 
fellows  have  lent  me  money  is  no  reason  why  you  should  think 
you  must  be  polite  with  them.  They're  unconscionable  rascals. 
You  must  have  had  something  to  do  with  them.  Hector  —  old 
Pere  Salomon,  Monsieur  Chevassus,  Monsieur  Cogne? 

DUKE.  Did  I !  They're  the  first  Arabs  I  ever  had  anything 
to  do  with.      Lent  me  money  at  fifty  per  cent. 

POIRIER.  Highway  robbery!  And  you  were  fool  enough 
— I  beg  your  pardon.  Monsieur  le  due —  I  beg  your  pardon! 

DUKE.  What  else  could  I  do?  Ten  thousand  francs  at 
two  per  cent,  is  nearer  usury  than  nothing  at  all  at  five  per  cent. 

POIRIER.      But,  Monsieur,  there  is  a  law  against  usury. 

DUKE.  Which  the  usurers  respect  and  obey;  they  take 
only  legal  interest,  but  you  get  only  one-half  the  face  value  of 
the  note  in  cash,  you  see. 

POIRIER.      And  the  other  half? 

DUKE.  Stuffed  lizards,  as  in  Moliere's  time.  Usurers  do 
not  progress:  they  were  born  perfect. 

GASTON.      Like  the  Chinese. 

POIRIER.  I  hope,  son-in-law,  that  you  haven't  borrowed 
at  any  such  outrageous  rate? 

GASTON.      I  hope  so  too,  father-in-law. 

POIRIER.      At  fifty  per  cent! 

GASTON.      No  more,  no  less. 

POIRIER.      And  did  you  get  stuffed  lizards? 


98  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.      Any  number. 

POIRIER.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  sooner?  I  could  have 
come  to  an  agreement  with  them  before  the  marriage. 

GASTON.  That  is  precisely  what  I  did  not  want.  Would 
it  not  be  fine  to  see  the  Marquis  de  Presles  buying  back  his 
pledged  word,  insulting  his  noble  name! 

POIRIER.      But  if  you  owe  only  half  the  amount ? 

GASTON.  I  received  only  half,  but  I  owe  the  whole.  I 
don't  owe  the  money  to  those  thieves,  but  to  my  own  signature. 

POIRIER.  Allow  me.  Monsieur  le  marquis  —  I  believe  I 
may  say  that  I  am  an  honest  man;  I  have  never  cheated  anyone 
out  of  a  single  sou,  and  I  am  incapable  of  advising  you  to  do 
something  underhand,  but  it  appears  to  me  that  in  paying  back 
those  scoundrels  their  principal  at  six  per  cent.,  you  will  have 
acted  in  an  honourable  and  scrupulous  way. 

GASTON.      This  is  not  a  question  of  honesty,  but  of  honour. 

POIRIER.      What  difference  do  you  see  between  the  two? 

GASTON.      Honour  is  a  gentleman's  honesty, 

POIRIER.  So,  virtues  change  names  when  you  want  to  put 
them  into  practice?  You  polish  up  their  vulgarity  in  order  to 
use  them  for  yourself?  I'm  surprised  at  only  one  thing:  that 
what  is  called  the  nose  on  a  nobleman's  face  deigns  to  be  called 
by  the  same  name  when  it  happens  to  be  on  a  tradesman's  face  I 

GASTON.      That  is  because  all  noses  are  similar. 

DUKE.      Within  six  inches! 

POIRIER.      Then  don't  you  think  that  men  are? 

GASTON.       It's  a  question. 

POIRIER.  Which  was  decided  long  ago,  Monsieur  le  mar- 
quis. 

DUKE.  Our  rights  and  privileges  have  been  abolished,  but 
not  our  duties.  Of  all  that  remains  to  us  there  are  only  two 
words,  but  they  are  words  which  nothing  can  snatch  from  us: 
Noblesse  oblige  I  No  matter  what  happens,  we  shall  abide  by 
a  code  more  severe  than  the  law,  that  mysterious  code  which 
we  call  honour. 

POIRIER.      Well,  Monsieur  le  marquis,  it  is  very  fortunate 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  99 

for  your  honour  that  my  honesty  pays  your  debts.  Only  as 
I  am  not  a  gentleman,  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  do  my  best  to  get 
out  of  this  fix  as  cheaply  as  I  can. 

GASTON.  You  must  be  very  clever  indeed  to  make  any 
sort  of  compromise  with  those  highway  robbers:  they  are  mas- 
ters of  the  situation. 

Re-enter  ANTOINETTE. 

POIRIER.  We'll  see,  we'll  see.  [^Aside^  I  have  an  idea: 
I'm  going  to  play  my  own  little  game.  [^Aloud^  I'll  go  at 
once,  so  that  they  shan't  get  impatient. 

DUKE.      No,  don't  wait;   they  will  devour  you  if  you  do. 

POIRIER  goes  out. 

GASTON.  Poor  Monsieur  Poirier,  I  feel  sorry  for  him. 
This  latest  revelation  takes  away  all  his  pleasure  at  paying  my 
debts. 

DUKE.  Listen  to  me:  there  are  very  few  people  who  know 
how  to  be  robbed.      It  is  an  art  worthy  a  great  lord. 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  Messieurs  de  Ligny  and  de  Chazerolles  would 
like  to  speak  to  Monsieur  le  marquis  on  behalf  of  Monsieur  de 
Pontgrimaud. 

GASTON.  Very  well.  \^The  SERVANT  goes  out^  You  re- 
ceive the  gentlemen,  Hector.  You  don't  need  me  to  help  you 
arrange  the  party. 

ANTOINETTE.      A  party ? 

GASTON.  Yes,  I  won  a  good  deal  of  money  from  Pontgri- 
maud, and  I  promised  him  a  chance  to  take  revenge.  \^To 
hector]  Tomorrow,  some  time  in  the  morning,  will  be  satis- 
factory for  me. 

DUKE.      [_Aside  to  GASTON]     When  shall  I  see  you  again? 

GASTON.  [^Aside  to  HECTOR]  Madame  de  Montjay  is 
expecting  me.      At  three,  then,  here.      iJThe  DUKE  goes  out^ 


100  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.  {^Sating  on  a  sofa,  he  opens  a  magazine,  yawns 
and  says  to  his  wife^  Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  lialiens 
tonight? 

ANTOINETTE.      Yes,  if  you  are  going. 

GASTON.      I  am.      What  gown  are  you  going  to  wear? 

ANTOINETTE.      Any  one  you  Uke. 

GASTON.  It  makes  no  difference  to  me  —  I  mean,  you  look 
very  pretty  in  any  of  them. 

ANTOINETTE.  But  you  have  such  excellent  taste,  dear; 
you  ought  to  advise  me. 

GASTON.  I  am  not  a  fashion  magazine,  my  dear  child; 
and  then,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  watch  the  great  ladies,  make 
them  your  models:  Madame  de  Nohan,  Madame  de  Ville- 
preux 


ANTOINETTE.      Madame  de  Montjay 

GASTON.  Why  Madame  de  Montjay,  rather  than  anyone 
else? 

ANTOINETTE.      Because  she  pleases  you  more. 

GASTON.      Where  did  you  get  that  idea? 

ANTOINETTE.  The  other  evening  at  the  Opera  you  paid 
her  a  rather  long  visit  in  her  box.  She  is  very  pretty.  Is 
she  clever,  too? 

GASTON.      Very.      \^A  pause] 

ANTOINETTE.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  when  I  do  something 
that  doesn't  please  you? 

GASTON.      I  have  never  failed  to  do  so. 

ANTOINETTE.      You  never  said  you  were  displeased. 

GASTON.      Because  you  never  gave  me  the  occasion. 

ANTOINETTE.  Why,  just  a  few  moments  ago,  when  I 
insisted  that  you  take  some  position,  I  know  I  displeased  you. 

GASTON.      I'd  forgotten  about  that  —  it  doesn't  matter. 

ANTOINETTE.  If  I  had  had  any  notion  what  your  ideas 
on  that  subject  were,  do  you  think  for  an  instant  that  I  should 
have ? 

GASTON.  Truly,  my  dear,  it  almost  seems  as  if  you  were 
making  excuses. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  101 

ANTOINETTE.  That  Is  because  I  am  afraid  you  will  think 
I  am  childish  and  vain 

GASTON.  What  if  you  were  a  little  proud?  Is  that  a 
crime? 

ANTOINETTE.      I  swear  I  haven't  an  ounce  of  pride. 

GASTON.  {^Rising^  My  dear,  you  haven't  a  single  fault. 
And  do  you  know  that  you  have  quite  won  the  admiration  of 
Montmeyran?  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  that.  Hector  is 
difficult  to  please. 

ANTOINETTE.      Less  so  than  you. 

GASTON.  Do  you  think  me  difficult  to  please?  You  see, 
you  have  some  vanity  —  I've  caught  you  in  the  act! 

ANTOINETTE.  I  have  no  illusions  about  myself:  I  know 
very  well  what  I  need  in  order  to  be  worthy  of  you.  But  if 
you  will  only  take  the  trouble  to  guide  me,  tell  me  something 
about  the  ideas  of  the  world  you  know,  I  love  you  so  much  that 
I  would  completely  change  myself. 

GASTON.  {^Kissing  her  hand^  I  could  not  but  lose  by  the 
change,  Madame,  and  furthermore,  I  am  only  a  middling  teacher. 
There  is  but  one  school  in  which  to  learn  what  you  think  you 
lack:  society.      Study  it. 

ANTOINETTE.  Very  well,  then,  I  shall  study  Madame  de 
Mont  jay. 

GASTON.  Again!  Are  you  doing  me  the  honour  to  be 
jealous?  Take  care,  my  dear,  that  failing  is  distinctly  bour- 
geois. You  must  learn,  since  you  allow  me  to  be  your  guide, 
that  in  our  circle  marriage  does  not  necessarily  mean  a  home  and 
a  household;  only  the  noble  and  elegant  things  in  life  do  we 
have  in  common  among  ourselves.  When  I  am  not  with  you, 
pray  do  not  worry  about  what  I  am  doing;  merely  say  to  your- 
self, "He  is  dissipating  his  imperfections  in  order  that  he  may 
bring  to  me  one  hour  of  perfection,  or  nearly  so." 

ANTOINETTE.  I  think  that  your  greatest  imperfection  is 
your  absence. 

GASTON.  Neatly  turned.  Thank  you.  Who's  this?  My 
creditors! 


102  MONSIEUR  POIRIEKS  SON-IN-LAW 

Enter  the  CREDITORS. 

GASTON.  You  here.  Messieurs!  You  have  mistaken  the 
door:   the  servants'  entrance  is  on  the  other  side. 

SALOMON.  We  didn't  want  to  leave  without  seeing  you. 
Monsieur  le  marquis. 

GASTON.      I  can  dispense  with  your  thanks. 

COGNE.      We  have  come  to  ask  for  yours. 

CHEVASSUS.      You've  treated  us  long  enough  as  usurers. 

COGNE.      Leeches! 

SALOMON.      Blood-suckers! 

CHEVASSUS.  We're  delighted  to  have  this  occasion  to  tell 
you  that  we  are  honest  men. 

GASTON.       I  fail  to  see  the  joke? 

COGNE.  This  is  not  a  joke,  Monsieur.  We  have  loaned 
you  money  at  six  per  cent. 

GASTON.      Have  my  notes  not  been  acquitted  in  full? 

SALOMON.  There's  a  trifle  lacking:  some  two  hundred  and 
eighteen  thousand  francs. 

GASTON.      What's  that? 

CHEVASSUS.      We  were  obliged  to  submit  to  that! 

SALOMON.  And  your  father-in-law  insisted  on  your  being 
sent  to  the  debtors'  prison. 

GASTON.      My  father-in-law  Insisted  that ? 

COGNE.  Yes,  it  seems  that  you  have  been  playing  some 
underhanded  trick  with  him,  the  poor  fellow! 

SALOMON.      It'll  teach  him  better  next  time! 

COGNE.      But  meantime,  u)e  must  bear  the  burden. 

GASTON.  [To  ANTOINETTE]  Your  father,  Madame,  has 
behaved  In  a  most  undignified  way.  [To  the  CREDITORS] 
I  confess  myself  in  your  debt,  Messieurs,  but  I  have  an  income  of 
only  twenty-five  thousand  francs. 

SALOMON.  You  know  very  well  you  can't  touch  the  prin- 
cipal without  your  wife's  consent.  We  have  seen  your  marriage 
contract. 

COGNE.      You're  not  making  your  wife  very  happy 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  103 

GASTON,      Leave  the  house! 

SALOMON.  You  can't  kick  honest  people  out  of  the  house 
like  dogs  —  people  who've  helped  you  —  [^ANTOINETTE  has 
meantime  sat  down  and  is  now  writing^  —  people  who  believed 
that  the  signature  of  the  Marquis  de  Presles  was  worth  some- 
thing. 

COGNE.      And  who  were  mistaken! 

CREDITORS.      Yes,  mistaken! 

ANTOINETTE.  [Handing  SALOMON  a  check  which  she  has 
written^  You  are  not  mistaken.  Messieurs:  you  are  paid  in 
full. 

GASTON.  [Takes  the  check,  glances  at  it,  and  hands  it  hack 
to  SALOMON^]  Now  that  you  really  are  thieves  —  leave  the 
house!      Rascals!      Hurry  up,  or  we'll  have  you  swept  out! 

CREDITORS.  Too  good  of  you,  Monsieur  le  marquis!  A 
thousand  thanks!      [They  go  out^ 

GASTON.  You  dear!  I  adore  you!  [He  lakes  her  in  his 
arms  and  kisses  her  vehemently^ 

ANTOINETTE.      Dear  Gaston!      . 

GASTON.  Where  in  the  world  did  your  father  find  the 
heart  he  gave  you? 

ANTOINETTE.  Don't  judge  my  father  too  severely,  dear. 
He  is  good  and  generous,  but  his  ideas  are  narrow.  He  can't 
see  beyond  his  own  individual  rights.  It's  the  fault  of  his 
mind,  not  his  heart.  Now,  if  you  consider  that  I  have  done 
my  duty,  forgive  my  father  for  that  one  moment  of  agony 

GASTON.  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  to  refuse  you  any- 
thing. 

ANTOINETTE.      You  really  won't  blame  him,  will  you? 

GASTON.  No,  since  you  wish  it,  Marquise  —  Marquise,  you 
hear? 

ANTOINETTE.  Call  me  your  wife  —  the  only  title  of  which 
I  am  proud! 

GASTON.      You  do  love  me  a  little? 

ANTOINETTE.      Haven't  you  noticed  it,  ungrateful  man? 

GASTON.      Oh  yes,  but  I  like  to  hear  you  say  it  —  especially 


104  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

at  this  moment.  \^The  cloc\  strides  ihree^  Three  o'clock! 
[]/45iWe]    The  devil!      Madame  de  Mont  jay  is  expecting  me! 

ANTOINETTE.  You  are  smiling  —  what  are  you  thinking 
about? 

GASTON.  Would  you  like  to  take  a  ride  with  me  in  the 
Bois? 

ANTOINETTE.      Well  —  I'm  not  dressed  to  go. 

GASTON.  Just  throw  a  shawl  over  your  shoulders.  Ring 
for  your  maid.      ^ANTOINETTE  ringf\ 

Enter  POIRIER. 

POIRIER.      Well,  son-in-law,  have  you  seen  your  creditors? 
GASTON.      [With   evident    ill-humour^     Yes,    Monsieur 


ANTOINETTE.      [Aside   to   GASTON,    as   she   takes   his   arni] 

Remember  your  promise, 

GASTON.      [Amiably^    Yes,  my  dear  father-in-law,   I  have 

seen  them. 

Enter  the  MAID. 

ANTOINETTE.  [To  the  MAID]  Bring  me  my  shawl  and 
hat,  and  have  the  horses  hitched.    [The  MAID  goes  out^ 

GASTON.  [To  POIRIER]  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on 
your  good  stroke  of  business;  you  did  play  them  a  very  clever 
trick.      [Aside  to  ANTOINETTE]     Am  I  not  nice? 

POIRIER.  You  take  it  better  than  I  thought  you  would; 
I  was  prepared  for  any  number  of  objections  on  the  score  of 
your  "honour." 

GASTON.  I  am  reasonable,  father-in-law.  You  have  acted 
according  to  your  own  ideas.  I  have  little  objection  to  that; 
we  have  acted  according  to  our  ideas. 

POIRIER.      What's  that? 

GASTON.  You  gave  those  rascals  only  the  actual  sum  of 
money  borrowed  from  them:   we  have  payed  the  rest. 

POIRIER.  [To  ANTOINETTE]  What!  Did  you  sign  away 
?    [ANTOINETTE  nods']    Good  God,  what  have  you  donel 

ANTOINETTE.      I  beg  your  pardon,  father 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  105 

POIRIER.  I've  moved  Heaven  and  earth  in  order  to  give  you 
a  good  round  sum,  and  you  throw  it  out  of  the  window!  Two 
hundred  and  eighteen  thousand  francs! 

GASTON.  Don't  worry  about  that,  Monsieur  Poirier,  we 
are  the  ones  who  lose:  you  receive  the  benefit. 

Re-enier  the  MAID,  loiih  hat  and  shawl. 

ANTOINETTE.      Goodby,  father,  we  are  going  to  the  Bois. 

GASTON.      Your  arm,  wife!      [_They  go  ouQ 

POIRIER.  He  gets  on  my  nerves,  that  son-in-law  of  mine. 
I  can  see  very  well  that  I  can  never  get  any  satisfaction  out  of 
him.  He's  an  incurable  gentleman!  He  refuses  to  do  anything, 
he's  good  for  nothing  —  he's  a  frightful  expense  —  he  is  master 
in  my  own  house.  This  has  got  to  end.  [^He  rings.  A 
moment  later2  ^^^^^  ^  ^^^^^^^^ 

POIRIER.  Have  the  porter  and  the  cook  come  here.  \^The 
SERVANT  goes  out^  We'll  see,  son-in-law.  I've  been  too  soft 
and  kind  and  generous.  So  you  won't  give  in,  my  fine  friend? 
Very  well,  do  as  you  please!  Neither  will  I:  you  remain  a 
marquis,  and  I  shall  remain  a  bourgeois.  I'll  at  least  have  the 
consolation  of  living  as  I  want  to  live. 

Enter  the  PORTER. 

PORTER.      Did  Monsieur  ask  for  me? 

POIRIER.  Yes,  Francois,  Monsieur  did  ask  for  you.  Put 
up  a  sign  on  the  house  at  once. 

PORTER.      A    sign? 

POIRIER.  "To  let,  a  magnificent  apartment  on  the  first 
floor,  with  stables  and  appurtenances." 

PORTER.      Monsieur  le  marquis'  apartment? 

POIRIER.      Exactly,  FranQois. 

PORTER.      But  Monsieur  le  marquis  gave  me  no  orders! 

POIRIER.  Idiot,  who  is  master  here?  Who  owns  this 
house? 

PORTER.      You,  Monsieur. 


106  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

POIRIER.  Then  do  as  I  tell  you.  I  can  dispense  with  your 
opinions. 

PORTER.      Very  well,  Monsieur.      [He  PORTER  goes  out] 

Enter  VATEL. 

POIRIER.  Hurry,  Francois.  —  Come  here,  Monsieur  Vatel. 
You  are  preparing  a  grand  dinner  for  tomorrow? 

VATEL.  Yes,  Monsieur,  and  I  may  even  say  that  the  menu 
would  be  no  disgrace  to  my  illustrious  ancestor.  It  will  be  a 
veritable  work  of  art.      Monsieur  Poirier  will  be  astonished 

POIRIER.      Have  you  the  menu  with  you? 

VATEL.  No,  Monsieur,  it  is  being  copied,  but  I  know  it 
by  heart. 

POIRIER.      Be  good  enough  to  recite  it  to  me. 

VATEL.  Potage  aux  ratiohs  a  I'ltalienne  and  Poiage  a  Forge 
a  la  Marie  Stuart, 

POIRIER.  Instead  of  those  two  unknown  soups  you  will 
have  ordinary  vegetable  soup. 

VATEL.      What,  Monsieur? 

POIRIER.      It  is  my  will.      Continue. 

VATEL.  After  the  soup:  Carpe  du  Rhin  a  la  Lithuanienne, 
Poulardes  a  la  Godard,  Filet  de  bceuf  braise  aux  raisins  a  la  Napoli' 
iaine,  Westphalian  ham,  Madeira  sauce. 

POIRIER.  Here's  an  easier  and  much  healthier  after-soup 
course  for  you:  brill  with  caper  sauce;  Bayonne  ham  with 
spinach;  larded  veal  with  gooseberries;  and  rabbit. 

VATEL.      But,  Monsieur  Poirier,  I  shall  never  consent  to 

POIRIER.  I  am  master  here,  do  you  understand?  Con- 
tinue. 

VATEL.  Entr6es:  Filets  de  tolaille  a  la  concordat — Crou- 
stades  de  truffes  garnies  de  foie  a  la  royale;  Stuffed  pheasants  a 
la  Montpensier,  Red  partridges  jarcis  a  la  bohemienne. 

POIRIER.  Instead  of  these  entrees  we'll  have  nothing  at  all. 
Let's  proceed  at  once  to  the  roasts.  That's  the  important 
part. 

VATEL.      But  this  is  against  all  the  precepts  of  the  art. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIERS  SON-IN-LAW  107 

POIRIER.  I'll  take  the  responsibility  for  that.  Now,  what 
are  your  roasts? 

VATEL.  There  is  no  use  going  any  further,  Monsieur;  my 
ancestor  thrust  a  sword  through  his  heart  for  a  lesser  insult. 
I    resign. 

POIRIER.  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you  to  do  that,  old  man. 
Of  course,  you  still  have  a  week  here,  while  I  can  look  for  another 
servant 

VATEL.      A  servant!      Monsieur,  I  am  a  chef! 

POIRIER.  I  am  going  to  replace  you  by  a  woman-cook. 
Meantime,  during  the  week  when  you  are  in  my  service,  you  will 
be  good  enough  to  execute  my  orders. 

VATEL.  I  would  rather  blow  my  brains  out  than  be  false  to 
my  name! 

POIRIER.  l^Aside]  Another  stickler  for  his  name! 
l^AloucT]  Blow  your  brains  out.  Monsieur  Vatel,  but  be  careful 
not  to  burn  my  sauces.  Good  day  to  you.  [[ VATEL  goes  out] 
And  now  I'm  going  to  invite  some  of  my  old  friends  from  the 
Rue  des  Bourdonnais.  Monsieur  le  marquis  de  Presles,  we  are 
going  to  make  you  come  down  a  few  pegs!  \^He  goes  out  humming 
the  first  verse  of  "Monsieur  et  Madame  Denis"] 

CURTAIN 


THIRD  ACT 
The  scene  is  the  same.    GASTON  and  ANTOINETTE  are  present. 

GASTON.  What  a  delightful  ride!  Charming  Spring 
weather!      You  might  almost  think  it  was  April! 

ANTOINETTE.      Really,  weren't  you  too  bored? 

GASTON.  With  you,  my  dear?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you 
are  the  most  charming  woman  I  know. 

ANTOINETTE.      Compliments,    Monsieur? 

GASTON.  Oh  no:  the  truth  in  its  most  brutal  form.  And 
what  a  delightful  journey  I  made  into  your  mind  and  heart. 


108  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

How  many  undiscovered  points  I  have  found!  Why,  I  have 
been  living  near  you  without  knowing  you,  Uke  a  Parisian  in 
Paris. 

ANTOINETTE.      And  I  don't  displease  you  too  much? 

GASTON.  It  is  my  place  to  ask  you  that  question.  I  feel 
like  a  peasant  who  has  been  entertaining  a  disguised  queen: 
all  at  once  the  queen  puts  on  her  crown  and  the  peasant  feels 
embarrassed  and  makes  excuses  for  not  having  been  more 
attentive  and  hospitable. 

ANTOINETTE.  Be  assured,  good  peasant,  that  your  queen 
blames  nothing  except  her  own  incognito. 

GASTON.  For  having  kept  it  so  long,  cruel  queen?  Was  it 
out  of  sheer  coquetry,  and  to  have  another  honeymoon?  You 
have  succeeded.  Hitherto  I  have  been  only  your  husband; 
now  I  want  to  become  your  lover. 

ANTOINETTE.  No,  my  dear  Gaston,  remain  my  husband. 
I  think  that  a  woman  can  cease  to  love  her  lover,  never  her 
husband. 

GASTON.      Ah,  so  you  are  not  romantic? 

ANTOINETTE.  I  am,  but  in  my  own  way.  My  ideas  on 
the  subject  are  perhaps  not  fashionable,  but  they  are  deeply 
rooted  in  me,  like  childhood  impressions.  When  I  was  a  little 
girl,  I  could  never  understand  how  it  was  that  my  father  and 
mother  weren't  related,  and  ever  since  then,  marriage  has  seemed 
to  me  the  tenderest  and  closest  of  all  relationships.  To  love  a 
man  who  is  not  my  husband,  seems  contrary  to  nature. 

GASTON.  The  ideas  rather  of  a  Roman  matron,  my  dear 
Antoinette,  but  keep  them,  for  the  sake  of  my  honour  and  my 
happiness. 

ANTOINETTE.  Take  care!  There  is  another  side:  I  am 
jealous,  I  warn  you.  If  there  is  only  one  man  in  the  world 
whom  I  can  love,  I  must  have  all  his  love.  The  day  I  discover 
that  this  is  not  so,  I  shall  make  no  complaint  or  reproach,  but 
the  link  will  be  broken.  At  once  my  husband  will  become  a 
stranger  to  me  —  I  should  consider  myself  a  widow. 

GASTON.     {^Aside}    The   devil!     [_Alou<Q     Fear   nothing, 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  109 

dear  Antoinette,  we  shall  live  like  two  lovers,  like  Philemon  and 
Baucis  —  with  the  exception  of  the  hut.  — You  don't  insist  on 
the  hut,  do  you? 

ANTOINETTE.      Not  in  the  least. 

GASTON.  I  am  going  to  hold  a  brilliant  celebration  of  our 
wedding,  and  I  want  you  to  eclipse  all  the  other  women  and 
make  all  the  men  envious  of  me. 

ANTOINETTE.      Must  we  proclaim  our  happiness  so  loud? 

GASTON.      Don't  you  like  entertainments? 

ANTOINETTE.  I  like  everything  that  you  like.  Are  we 
going  to  have  company  at  dinner  today? 

GASTON.  No  —  tomorrow.  Today  we  have  only  Mont- 
meyran.      Why  did  you  ask? 

ANTOINETTE.      Should  I  dress? 

GASTON.  Yes,  because  I  want  you  to  make  married  life 
attractive  to  Hector.  Go  now,  my  dear  child.  I  shan't 
forget  this  happy  day! 

ANTOINETTE.      How  happy  I  am!    [5Ae  goes  out] 

GASTON.  There  is  no  denying  the  fact:  she  is  prettier  than 
Madame  de  Montjay.  Devil  take  me  if  I  am  not  falling  in 
love  with  my  wife!  Love  is  like  good  fortune:  while  we  seek 
it  afar,  it  is  waiting  for  us  at  home. 

Enter  POIRIER. 

Well,  my  dear  father-in-law,  how  are  you  taking  your  little  dis- 
appointment? Are  you  still  angry  on  account  of  the  money? 
Have  you  decided  to  do  something? 

POIRIER.       I    have. 

GASTON.      Something  violent? 

POIRIER.      Something  necessary. 

GASTON.      Might  I  be  so  indiscreet  as  to  inquire  what? 

POIRIER.  On  the  contrary,  Monsieur,  I  even  owe  you  an 
explanation.  When  I  gave  you  my  daughter  together  with  a 
million  francs*  dowry,  I  never  for  a  moment  thought  that  you 
would  refuse  to  take  a  position. 

GASTON.      Please  let's  drop  that  subject. 


110  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

POIRIER.  I  merely  wanted  to  remind  you.  I  confess  I 
was  wrong  in  thinking  that  a  gentleman  would  ever  consent  to 
work  like  a  man;  I  own  my  mistake.  As  a  result  of  that  mis- 
take, however,  I  have  allowed  you  to  run  my  house  on  a  scale 
which  I  can't  myself  keep  up  with;  and  since  it  is  understood 
that  my  fortune  alone  is  our  only  source  of  income,  it  seems  to  me 
just,  reasonable,  and  necessary,  to  cut  down,  because  I  see  I 
have  no  hope  of  any  further  increase  in  revenue.  I  therefore 
thought  of  making  a  few  reforms,  which  you  will  undoubtedly 
approve. 

GASTON.  Proceed,  Sully!  Go  on,  Turgot!  Cut,  slash! 
You  find  me  in  splendid  humour!      Take  advantage  of  the  fact. 

POIRIER.  I  am  most  delighted  at  your  condescension.  I 
have,  I  say,  decided,  resolved,  commanded 

GASTON.  I  beg  your  pardon,  father-in-law,  but  if  you  have 
decided,  resolved,  commanded,  it  seems  quite  superfluous  for 
you  to  consult  me. 

POIRIER.  I  am  not  consulting  you;  I  am  merely  telling 
you  the  facts. 

GASTON.      So  you  are  not  consulting  me? 

POIRIER.      Are  you  surprised? 

GASTON.  A  little,  but,  as  I  told  you,  I  am  in  splendid 
humour. 

POIRIER.      Well,  the  first  reform,  my  dear  boy 

GASTON.  You  mean,  your  dear  Gaston,  I  think?  A  slip 
of  the  tongue! 

POIRIER.  Dear  Gaston,  dear  boy  —  all  the  same.  Some 
familiarity  between  father-in-law  and  son-in-law  is  allowed, 
doubtless? 

GASTON.  And  on  your  part.  Monsieur  Poirier,  it  flatters 
and  honours  me.  You  were  about  to  say  that  your  first 
reform ? 

POIRIER.  That  you.  Monsieur,  do  me  the  favour  to  stop 
making  fun  of  me.  I'm  tired  of  being  the  butt  of  all  your 
jokes. 

GASTON.      Now,  now,  Monsieur  Poirier,  don't  be  angry. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  1 1 1 

POIRIER.  I  know  very  well  that  you  think  I'm  of  little 
acceiint,  that  I'm  not  very  intelligent,  but 

GASTON.      Where  did  you  get  that  idea? 

POIRIER.  But  let  me  tell  you,  there  is  more  brains  in  my 
little  finger  than  there  is  in  your  whole  body. 

GASTON.      This  is  ridiculous 

POIRIER.      I'm  no  Marquis! 

GASTON.  Hush!  Not  so  loud!  Someone  might  believe 
it! 

POIRIER.  It  makes  no  difference  to  me  whether  they  do  or 
not.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  gentleman,  thank  God!  It's 
not  worth  troubling  my  mind  about. 

GASTON.      Not  worth  troubling  about? 

POIRIER.  No,  Monsieur,  no!  I'm  an  old  dyed-in-the-wool 
Liberal,  that's  what  I  am,  and  I  judge  men  on  their  merits,  and 
not  according  to  their  titles.  I  laugh  at  the  mere  accident  of 
birth.  The  nobility  doesn't  dazzle  me:  I  think  no  more  of  it 
than  I  do  of  the  Judgment  Day.  I'm  delighted  to  have  this 
occasion  of  telling  you  so. 

GASTON.      Do  you  think  I  have  merits? 

POIRIER.      No,  Monsieur,  I  do  not. 

GASTON.      No?      Then  why  did  you  give  me  your  daughter? 

POIRIER.      Why  did  I ? 

GASTON.      Possibly  you  had  some  afterthought? 

POIRIER.      (Embarrassed)      Afterthought? 

GASTON.  Allow  me:  your  daughter  did  not  love  me  when 
you  brought  me  to  your  home;  and  certainly  it  was  not  my  debts 
which  appealed  to  you,  and  which  caused  the  honour  of  your 
choice  to  fall  upon  me.  Now,  since  it  was  not  my  title  either, 
I  am  forced  to  assume  that  you  must  have  had  some  after- 
thought. 

POIRIER.  And  what  of  it.  Monsieur?  What  if  I  did  try 
to  combine  my  own  interest  with  my  daughter's  happiness? 
Where  would  be  the  harm?  Who  could  blame  me,  I  who  gave 
a  million  right  out  of  my  pocket,  for  choosing  a  son-in-law  who 
could  in  some  way  pay  me  back  for  my  sacrifice  —  My  daughter 


112  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

loved  you,  didn't  she?  I  thought  of  her  first;  that  was  my 
duty,  in  fact,  my  right. 

GASTON.  I  don't  contest  that,  Monsieur  Poirier,  I  only  say 
that  you  were  wrong  in  one  repsect:  not  to  have  confided  in  me. 

POIRIER.      Well,  you  are  not  a  very  encouraging  sort  of  man. 

GASTON.  Are  you  blaming  me  for  my  occasional  jokes  at 
your  expense?  Possibly  I  am  not  the  most  respectful  son- 
in-law  in  the  world;  I  admit  it,  only  allow  me  to  state  that  in 
serious  matters  I  know  how  to  be  serious.  It  is  only  right  that 
you  were  looking  for  the  support  which  you  have  not  found 
in  me. 

POIRIER.  {^AsideJi  Can  he  really  have  understood  the 
situation? 

GASTON.  Look  here,  my  dear  father-in-law,  can  I  help 
you  in  any  way?      That  is,  if  I  am  good  for  anything? 

POIRIER.  Well,  I  once  dreamed  of  being  introduced  at 
Court. 

GASTON.  Ah,  so  you  still  have  that  desire  to  dance  at 
court? 

POIRIER.  It's  not  a  matter  of  dancing.  Do  me  the  honour 
of  thinking  me  not  quite  so  frivolous  as  that.  I  am  not  vain  or 
trivial. 

GASTON.  Then  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  are  you? 
Explain  yourself. 

POIRIER.      l^Pileously']      I  am  ambitious. 

GASTON.  Why,  you're  not  blushing,  are  you?  Why? 
With  all  the  experience  you  have  acquired  in  the  realm  of  busi- 
ness, you  might  well  aspire  to  any  heights!  Commerce  is  the 
true  school  for  statesmanship. 

POIRIER.  That's  what  Verdelet  was  telling  me  only  this 
morning. 

GASTON.  That  is  where  one  can  obtain  a  high  and  grand 
view  of  things,  and  stand  detached  from  the  petty  interests 
which  —  that  is  the  sort  of  condition  from  which  your  Rlchelieus 
and  Colberts  sprang. 

POIRIER.      Oh,  I  don't  pretend I 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  113 

GASTON.  Now,  my  good  Monsieur  Poirier,  what  would  suit 
you?  A  prefecture?  Nonsense!  Council  of  State?  Nor 
diplomatic  service?  Let  me  see,  the  Turkish  embassy  is  vacant 
at  present  

POIRIER.  I'm  a  stay-at-home  —  and  then  I  don't  under- 
stand Turkish. 

GASTON.  Wait!  [^Striking  POIRIER  on  the  shoulder] 
The  peerage  —  it  would  fit  you  to  a  T. 

POIRIER.      Oh!      Do  you  really  think  so? 

GASTON.  That's  the  trouble:  you  don't  fall  into  any 
category,  you  see.      You're  not  a  member  of  the  Institute? 

POIRIER.  Oh,  don't  worry  about  that.  I'll  pay  —  three 
thousand  francs,  if  necessary  —  direct  contributions.  I  have 
three  millions  now  at  the  bank;  they  await  only  a  word  from  you 
to  be  put  into  good  land. 

GASTON.  Ah,  Machiavelli!  Sixtus  V!  You'll  outstrip 
them  all! 

POIRIER.      Yes,  I  think  I  will! 

GASTON.  But  I  sincerely  hope  your  ambition  will  not  stop 
there?      You  must  have  a  title. 

POIRIER.  Oh,  I  don't  insist  on  such  vain  baubles.  I'm 
an  old  Liberal,  as  I  told  you. 

GASTON.  All  the  more  reason.  A  Liberal  must  despise 
only  the  nobility  of  the  old  regime;  now,  the  new  nobility, 
which  has  no  ancestors 

POIRIER.      The  nobility  that  owes  everything  to  itself ! 

GASTON.      You  might  be  a  count. 

POIRIER.  No,  I'll  be  reasonable  about  it:  a  baronetcy 
would  suffice. 

GASTON.      Baron  Poirier!      Sounds  well! 

POIRIER.      Yes,  Baron  Poirier! 

GASTON.  [^Looks  at  POIRIER  and  then  bursts  out  laughing] 
I  beg  your  pardon!  But  —  really  —  this  is  too  funny!  Baron 
!      Monsieur  Poirier!      Baron  de  Catillard ! 

POIRIER.      []/45iWc[]     He's  been  making  fun  of  me! 

GASTON.      [^Calling]    Come  here.  Hector! 


114  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

Enter  the  DUKE. 

Come  here!  Do  you  know  why  Jean  Gaston  de  Presles  received 
three  wounds  from  an  arquebuse  at  the  Battle  of  Ivry?  Do 
you  know  why  Francois  Gaston  de  Presles  led  the  attack  on 
La  Rochelle?  Why  Louis  Gaston  de  Presles  was  blown  to 
pieces  at  La  Hogue?  Why  Philippe  Gaston  de  Presles  captured 
two  flags  at  Fontenoy?  Why  my  grandfather  gave  up  his 
life  at  Quiberon?  It  was  all  in  order  that  some  day  Monsieur 
Poirier  might  be  peer  of  France  and  a  baron! 

DUKE.      What  do  you  mean? 

GASTON.  This  is  the  secret  of  that  little  attack  on  me  this 
morning. 

DUKE.      lAside"]     I   seel 

POIRIER.  And  do  you  know,  Monsieur  le  due,  why  I  have 
worked  fourteen  hours  a  day  for  thirty  years?  Why  I  heaped 
up,  sou  by  sou,  four  millions  of  cash,  while  I  deprived  myself 
of  everything  but  bare  necessities?  It  was  all  in  order  that 
some  day  Monsieur  le  marquis  Gaston  de  Presles,  who  neither 
died  at  Quiberon,  nor  at  Fontenoy,  nor  at  La  Hogue,  nor  any- 
where else,  might  die  of  old  age  on  a  feather-bed,  cifter  having 
spent  his  life  doing  nothing  at  all. 

DUKE.      Well  said.  Monsieur! 

GASTON.      You  are  cut  out  for  an  orator! 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  There  are  some  gentlemen  here  who  would  like 
to  see  the  apartment. 

GASTON.      What   apartment? 

SERVANT.      Monsieur  le  marquis'. 

GASTON.      Do  they  think  this  a  natural  history  museum? 

POIRIER.  [ro  the  SERVANT]  Tell  the  gentlemen  to  call 
again.  \^The  SERVANT  goes  out^  Pardon  me,  son-in-law,  I 
was  so  carried  away  by  your  gayety  that  I  forgot  to  mention 
that  I  am  renting  the  first  floor  of  my  house. 

GASTON.      What's  that? 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  115 

POIRIER.  That  is  one  of  the  little  reforms  I  was  speaking 
about. 

GASTON.      And  where  do  you  intend  to  lodge  me? 

POIRIER.  On  the  floor  above:  the  apartment  is  large  enough 
for  us  all. 

GASTON.      A  Noah's  Ark! 

POIRIER.  Of  course,  it  goes  without  saying  that  I  am 
renting  the  stables  and  carriages,  too. 

GASTON.  And  my  horses  —  are  you  going  to  lodge  them  on 
the  second  floor? 

POIRIER.      You  will  sell  them. 

GASTON.      And  go  on  foot? 

DUKE.  It  will  do  you  good;  you  don't  do  half  enough 
walking. 

POIRIER.  I  shall  however  keep  my  own  blue  coupe.  I'll 
lend  it  to  you  when  you  need  it. 

DUKE.      When  the  weather  is  nice! 

GASTON.      Now,  see  here.  Monsieur  Poirier,  this  is  — !  — 

Enier  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  Monsieur  Vatel  would  like  to  speak  a  word  with 
Monsieur  le  marquis. 

GASTON.      Tell  him  to  come  in. 

Enier  VATEL,  dressed  in  Mack- 

What  does  this  mean.  Monsieur  Vatel?  Are  you  going  to  a 
funeral?      And  on  the  eve  of  battle! 

VATEL.  The  position  in  which  I  have  been  placed  is  such 
that  I  am  forced  to  desert  in  order  to  escape  dishonour.  Will 
Monsieur  le  marquis  kindly  cast  his  eyes  over  the  menu  which 
Monsieur  Poirier  has  imposed  upon  me! 

GASTON.  Monsieur  Poirier  imposed  on  you?  Let  us  see. 
^Reading^     "Lapin  saute"! 

POIRIER.      My  old  friend  Ducaillou's  favourite  dish. 

GASTON.      Stuffed  turkey  and  chestnuts. 

POIRIER.      My  old  comrade  Groschenet  is  very  fond  of  it. 


116  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.  Are  you  entertaining  the  whole  Rue  des  Bourdon- 
nzds? 

POIRIER.      Together  with  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 

GASTON.  I  accept  your  resignation,  Monsieur  Vatel. 
QVATEL  goes  ouf\  So,  tomorrow  my  friends  are  to  have  the 
honour  of  meeting  yours? 

POIRIER.  Exactly,  they  will  have  that  honour.  Monsieur 
le  due  will  not,  I  hope,  feel  humiliated  at  having  to  eat  my  soup 
as  he  sits  between  Monsieur  and  Madame  Pincebourde? 

DUKE.  Not  at  all.  This  little  debauch  is  not  in  the  least 
displeasing.  Undoubtedly  Madame  Pincebourde  will  sing  dur- 
ing the  dessert? 

GASTON.  And  after  dinner  we  shall  have  a  game  of  Piquet, 
too? 

DUKE.      Or  Lotto. 

POIRIER.      Pope  Joan  also. 

GASTON.  And  I  trust  we  shall  repeat  the  debauch  from  time 
to  time? 

POIRIER.  My  home  will  be  open  every  evening,  and  your 
friends  will  always  find  a  welcome  there. 

GASTON.  Really,  Monsieur  Poirier,  your  home  will  soon 
become  a  centre  of  marvellous  pleasures,  a  miniature  Capua. 
But  I  am  afraid  I  should  become  a  slave  of  luxury  and  I  shall 
therefore  leave  no  later  than  tomorrow. 

POIRIER.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  but  my  home  is  not  a  prison. 
What  career  do  you  intend  to  follow?      Medicine  or  Law? 

GASTON.      Who  said  anything  about  a  career? 

POIRIER.  Or  will  you  enter  the  Department  of  Roads  and 
Bridges?  For  you  will  certanly  be  unable  to  keep  up  your  rank 
on  nine  thousand  francs'  income? 

GASTON.      Nine  thousand  francs'  income? 

POIRIER.  Well,  the  account  is  easy  to  make  out:  you 
received  five  hundred  thousand  francs  as  my  daughter's  dowry. 
The  wedding  and  installation  took  about  a  hundred  thousand. 
You  have  just  given  two  hundred  and  eighteen  thousand  to  your 
creditors;    you   have  therefore  one  hundred   and   eighty-two 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  117 

thousand  left  which,  at  the  usual  interest,  will  yield  you  nine 
thousand  francs'  income.  You  see?  On  that  can  you  supply 
your  friends  with  Carpe  a  la  Lithuanienne  and  Volaillcs  a  la 
concordat?  Take  my  word  for  it,  my  dear  Gaston,  stay  with 
me;  you  will  be  more  comfortable  than  in  a  home  of  your  own. 
Think  of  your  children,  who  will  not  be  sorry  some  day  to  find 
in  the  pockets  of  the  Marquis  de  Presles  the  savings  of  old  man 
Poirier.  Goodby,  son-in-law,  I'm  going  to  settle  accounts  with 
Monsieur  Vatel.     [POIRIER  goes  out] 

GASTON.  \_As  he  and  the  DUKE  exchange  glances  and  the 
DUKE  bursts  into  peals  of  laughter]  You  think  it  funny,  do 
you? 

DUKE.  Indeed  I  do!  So  this  is  the  modest  and  generous 
fruit-tree  of  a  father-in-law!  This  Georges  Dandin!  At  last 
you've  found  your  master,  old  man.  In  the  name  of  Heaven, 
don't  look  so  miserable!  See  there,  you  look  like  a  prince  start- 
ing on  a  Crusade,  turning  back  because  of  the  rain!  Smile 
a  little,  this  isn't  so  tragic  after  all! 

GASTON.      You  are  right.      Monsieur  Poirier,  you  are  render- 
ing me  a  great  service  that  you  little  dream  of! 

DUKE.      A    service? 

GASTON.  Yes,  my  dear  fellow.  I  was  about  to  make  a 
fool  of  myself:  fall  in  love  with  my  wife.  Fortunately,  Monsieur 
Poirier  has  put  a  stop  to  that. 

DUKE.  Your  wife  is  not  to  blame  for  the  stupidity  of  her 
father.      She  is  charming! 

GASTON.      Nonsense!      She's  just  like  her  father! 

DUKE.      Not  the  least  bit,  I  tell  you! 

GASTON.  There  is  a  family  resemblance  —  I  insist!  I 
couldn't  kiss  her  without  thinking  of  the  old  fool.  Now,  I  did 
want  to  sit  at  home  with  my  wife  by  the  fireside,  but  the  moment 
it  is  to  be  a  kitchen  fireside  —  \^He  ta\es  out  his  lOatch]  Good 
evening! 

DUKE.      Where  are  you  going? 

GASTON.  To  Madame  de  Mont  jay's;  she's  been  waiting 
two  hours  already. 


118  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

DUKE.      Gaston,  don't  go. 

GASTON,  They  want  to  make  my  life  a  hardship  for  me  here, 
make  me  feel  penitent 

DUKE.      Listen  to  mel 

GASTON.      You  can't  persuade  me. 

DUKE.      What  about  your  duel? 

GASTON.      That's  so —  I'd  forgotten  about  that. 

DUKE.  You  are  going  to  fight  tomorrow  at  two  in  the  Bois 
de  Vincennes. 

GASTON.  Very  well.  With  this  humour  on  me,  Pont- 
grimaud  is  going  to  spend  a  nice  fifteen  minutes  tomorrow! 

Enter  VERDELET  and  ANTOINETTE. 

ANTOINETTE.      Are  you  going  out,  dear? 

GASTON.      Yes,  Madame,  I  am  going  out.      []//c  goes  ouQ 

VERDELET.  Well,  Toinon,  his  humour  isn't  quite  so  charm- 
ing as  you  described  it? 

ANTOINETTE.       I  don't  understand  why ? 

DUKE.      Very  serious  things  are  happening,  Madame. 

ANTOINETTE.      What? 

DUKE.      Your  father  is  ambitious. 

VERDELET.      Poirier  ambitious? 

DUKE.      He  was  counting  on  his  son-in-law's  title  to 

VERDELET.  Get  into  the  peerage  —  like  Monsieur  Michaudl 
lAside']     Old   fool! 

DUKE.  He's  adopted  childish  measures  in  retaliation,  after 
Gaston  refused  to  help  him.  I'm  afraid  it  is  you,  however, 
who  will  bear  the  expenses  of  the  war. 

ANTOINETTE.      How  do  you  mean? 

VERDELET.  It's  only  too  simple:  if  your  father  is  making 
the  house  disagreeable  to  your  husband,  he  will  seek  distraction 
elsewhere. 

ANTOINETTE.      Distraction  elsewhere? 

DUKE.  Monsieur  Verdelet  has  put  his  finger  on  the  spot. 
You,  Madame,  are  the  only  person  who  can  forestall  a  disaster. 
If  your  father  loves  you,  you  must  stand  between  him  and 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  119 

Gaston.  Make  a  truce  between  them  at  once.  There  is  no 
harm  done  yet,  and  everything  can  be  as  it  was. 

ANTOINETTE.  No  harm  done  yet?  Everything  can  be  as 
it  was?  You  make  me  very  much  afraid.  Against  whom  am 
I  to  defend  myself? 

DUKE.      Against  your  father. 

ANTOINETTE.  No!  You  are  not  teUing  me  everything. 
What  my  father  has  done  is  not  enough  to  take  my  husband 
from  me  in  the  space  of  a  single  day.  He's  making  love  to 
some  woman,  is  he  not? 

DUKE.      No,  Madame,  but 

ANTOINETTE.  Please,  Monsieur  le  due,  don't  try  to  hide  the 
truth.       I  have  a  rival! 

DUKE.      Do  calm  yourself! 

ANTOINETTE.      I  feel  it,  I  know  it!      He  is  with  her  now! 

DUKE.      No,   Madame:   he  loves  you. 

ANTOINETTE.  But  he  has  just  come  to  know  me  since  an 
hour  ago.  Ha,  it  wasn't  to  me  that  he  felt  he  must  tell  of  his 
anger  —  he  went  elsewhere  with  his  troubles! 

VERDELET.  Now,  now,  Toinon,  don't  get  so  excited.  He 
went  out  for  a  walk,  that's  all.  That  was  what  I  always  did 
when  Poirier  made  me  angry. 

Enter  a  SERVANT  carrying  a  letter  on  a  silver  plate. 

SERVANT.      A  letter  for  Monsieur  le  marquis. 

ANTOINETTE.  He  has  gone  out.  Lay  it  there.  [^The 
SERVANT  lays  the  letter  on  a  table.  ANTOINETTE  looks  at  it,  and 
says,  aside^  A  woman's  hand!  [[/1/ouJ]  From  whom  does 
this  come? 

''servant.  Madame  de  Mont  jay's  footman  brought  it. 
[]//c  goes  out^ 

ANTOINETTE.      [^Aside"]    Madame  de  Mont  jay! 

DUKE.  I  shall  see  Gaston  before  you,  Madame.  Would 
you  like  me  to  give  him  the  letter? 

ANTOINETTE.      Are  you  afraid  I  might  open  it? 

DUKE.      Oh,    Madame! 


120  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

ANTOINETTE.      It  must  have  crossed  Gaston. 

VERDELET,  The  idea!  Your  husband's  mistress  would 
never  dare  write  him  here! 

ANTOINETTE.  She  would  have  to  despise  me  not  to  dare  to 
write  to  him  here.  But  I  don't  say  she  is  his  mistress.  I 
only  say  that  he  is  making  love  to  her.  I  say  that  because  I 
am  positive. 

DUKE.      But  I  swear,  Madame 

ANTOINETTE.  Would  you  dare  swear  —  seriously  swear  — 
Monsieur  le  due? 

DUKE.  My  oath  would  prove  nothing,  for  a  gentleman  has 
the  right  to  lie  in  a  case  of  this  sort.  No  matter  what  the  truth 
is,  I  have  warned  you  of  the  danger  and  suggested  a  means  of 
escape.  I  have  done  my  duty  as  a  friend  and  an  honourable 
man.      Do  not  ask  anything  else  of  me.      [[//e  goes  ouf] 

ANTOINETTE.  I  have  just  lost  everything  I  had  won  in 
Gaston's  affection.  An  hour  ago  he  called  me  Marquise,  and 
my  father  has  just  brutally  recalled  the  fact  to  him  that  I  was 
Mademoiselle  Poirier. 

VERDELET.  Well,  is  it  impossible  for  anyone  to  love 
Mademoiselle  Poirier? 

ANTOINETTE.  Possibly  my  own  devotion  might  have 
touched  him,  my  own  love  have  awakened  his.  That  was 
already  beginning,  but  my  father  has  stopped  it.  His  mistress! 
She  can't  be  that  yet,  can  she,  Tony?  You  don't  really  believe 
she  is,  do  you? 

VERDELET.      Certainly  not! 

ANTOINETTE.  I  understand  how  he  might  have  been  making 
love  to  her  for  the  last  few  days.  But  if  he  is  really  her  lover, 
then  he  must  have  begun  the  day  after  our  marriage.  That 
would  be  vile! 

VERDELET.      Yes,  my  dear  child. 

ANTOINETTE.  Of  course,  he  didn't  marry  me  with  the  idea 
that  he  would  never  love  me  —  but  he  shouldn't  have  con- 
demned me  so  soon. 

VERDELET.      No,  of  course  he  shouldn't. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  121 

ANTOINETTE.  You  don't  seem  to  be  very  sure.  You  must 
be  mad  to  suspect  a  thing  of  that  sort!  You  know  very  well 
my  husband  wouldn't  be  capable  of  it!  Tell  me — there's  no 
doubt,  is  there?      You  don't  think  him  so  low? 

VERDELET.      No! 

ANTOINETTE.  Then  you  can  swear  he  is  innocent!  Swear 
it,  dear  Tony,  swear  it! 

VERDELET.       I  swear  it!       I  swear  it! 

ANTOINETTE.      Why  is  she  writing  a  letter  to  him? 

VERDELET.  It's  an  invitation,  probably,  to  a  party  of  some 
sort. 

ANTOINETTE.  It  must  be  very  important,  if  she  sends  it 
by  a  footman.      To  think  that  the  secret  of  my  whole  future 

life  is  in  that  envelope.     Let's  go  —  that  letter  tempts  me 

\^She  lays  the  letter,  which  she  has  meanwhile  picked  up,  on  the 
table,  and  stands  fixedly  holding  at  it^ 

VERDELET.      Come,   then,   you   are  right.      ^She  does  not 

move  r,  ,     „-,,„,,,„ 

-■  Enter  POIRIER. 

POIRIER.  Why,  Antoinette —  [lo  VERDELET]  What  is 
she  looking  at?      A  letter?      \_He  picl^s  up  the  letter^ 

ANTOINETTE.  Leave  it  there,  father,  it  is  addressed  to 
Monsieur  de  Presles. 

POIRIER.  I^Loo^mg  at  the  addresf\  Pretty  handwriting! 
\_He  sniffs  the  letter~\  Doesn't  smell  of  tobacco!  It's  from  a 
woman! 

ANTOINETTE.      Yes,  I  know;  it's  from  Madame  de  Mont  jay. 

POIRIER.  How  excited  you  are!  You're  feverish,  aren't 
you?      {He  tal^es  her  hand~\     You  are! 

ANTOINETTE.      No,  father. 

POIRIER.      Yes,  you  are.      What's  the  matter?      Tell  me. 

ANTOINETTE.      Nothing,  I  tell  you. 

VERDELET.  \_Aside  to  Poirier']  Don't  worry  her.  She's 
jealous. 

POIRIER.  Are  you  jealous?  Is  the  Marquis  unfaithful  to 
you?      By  God,  if  that's  so 


122  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

ANTOINETTE.      Father,  dear,  if  you  love  me,  don't 

POIRIER.      If  I  love  you ! 

ANTOINETTE.      Don't  torment  Gaston. 

POIRIER.  Who's  tormenting  him?  I'm  just  economising, 
that's   all. 

VERDELET.  You  irritate  the  Marquis,  and  your  daughter 
suffers  for  it. 

POIRIER.  You  mind  your  own  business.  [To  ANTOI- 
NETTE^     What  has  that  man  done  to  you?      I  must  know. 

ANTOINETTE.  [^Frightened2  Nothing  —  nothing.  Don't 
quarrel  with  him,  for  Heaven's  sake! 

POIRIER.  Then  why  are  you  jealous?  Why  are  you  look- 
ing at  that  letter,  eh?  \^He  tal^es  the  letter^  Do  you  think 
that  Madame  de  Mont  jay ? 

ANTOINETTE.      No,  no! 

POIRIER.      She  does,  doesn't  she,  Verdelet? 

VERDELET.      Well,  she  thinks 

POIRIER.  It's  very  easy  to  find  out  —  []//e  hrea\s  the 
sear\ 

ANTOINETTE.      Father!      A  letter  is  sacred. 

POIRIER.  There  is  nothing  so  sacred  to  me  as  your  happi- 
ness. 

VERDELET.  Take  care,  Poirier.  What  will  your  son-in- 
law  say? 

POIRIER.  I  don't  care  a  hang  about  my  son-in-law.  []//c 
opens  the  leiier~\ 

ANTOINETTE.      Please,  don't  read  that  letter. 

POIRIER.      I    will    read    it.      If  it  isn't    my    right,    it    is 

my  duty.      \_Reacling-7\    "Dear  Gaston "The  blackguard! 

\_He  drops  the  letter~\ 

ANTOINETTE.  She  is  his  mistress  I  Oh,  God!  ^She  falls 
into  a  chairj 

POIRIER.  [^Taking  VERDELET  by  the  coat  collar]  You  al- 
lowed me  to  arrange  this  marriage! 

VERDELET.      Oh  —  this  is  too  much! 

POIRIER.      When  I  asked  for  your  advice,  why  didn't  you 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  123 

oppose  me?      Why  didn't  you  warn   me  what  was  going  to 
happen? 

VERDELET.  I  told  you  twenty  times  —  but,  no,  Monsieur 
was  ambitious! 

POIRIER.      Much  good  it  did  me! 

VERDELET.      She's  fainting! 

POIRIER.      Good  God! 

VERDELET.  [^Kneeling  before  ANTOINETTE]  Toinon,  my 
child,  come  to  yourself! 

POIRIER.  Get  out!  You  don't  know  what  to  say  to  her! 
l^Kneeling  before  ANTOINETTE]  Toinon,  my  child,  come  to 
yourself! 

ANTOINETTE.      It  was  nothing —  I'm  well,  father. 

POIRIER.      Don't  worry,  I'll  get  rid  of  the  monster  for  you. 

ANTOINETTE.  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this?  And 
after  three  months  of  marriage!  Why  —  the  day  after,  the 
day  after  — I  He  wasn't  faithful  to  me  for  a  single  day.  He 
ran  to  her  from  my  arms.  Didn't  he  feel  my  heart  beating? 
He  didn't  understand  that  I  was  giving  myself  and  my  love 
completely  up  to  him.  The  wretch!  I  can't  live  —  after 
this! 

POIRIER.  Can't  live!  You  must!  What  would  become 
of  me  without  you?      The  scoundrel!      Where  are  you  going? 

ANTOINETTE.      To  my  room. 

POIRIER.      Do  you  want  me  to  come  with  you? 

ANTOINETTE.      Thank  you,  father  —  no. 

VERDELET.  [Fo  POIRIER]  Leave  her  to  cry  alone. 
Tears  will  make  her  feel  better.      [^ANTOINETTE  goes  ouf] 

POIRIER.  What  a  marriage!  What  a  marriage!  []//c 
strides  back  and  forth,  striding  his  breast  as  he  walks'] 

VERDELET.  Calm  yourself,  Poirier,  everything  can  be 
arranged  again.  At  present  our  duty  is  to  bring  these  two 
hearts  together  again. 

POIRIER.  I  know  my  duty  and  I  am  going  to  do  it.  [^He 
pic\s  up  the  letter~\ 

VERDELET.      Please,  now,  don't  do  anything  foolish! 


124  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

Enter  GASTON. 

POIRIER.      Are  you  looking  for  something,  Monsieur? 

GASTON.      Yes:  a  letter. 

POIRIER.  From  Madame  de  Montjay.  You  needn't  look 
for  it,  it  is  in  my  pocket. 

GASTON.      Have  you  by  any  chance  opened  it? 

POIRIER.      Yes,  Monsieur,  I  have. 

GASTON.  You  have?  Do  you  realise.  Monsieur,  that  that 
is  an  infamous  trick?  The  act  of  a  dishonest  and  dishonourable 
man? 

VERDELET.      Monsieur  le  marquis!  —  Poirier! 

POIRIER.  There  is  only  one  dishonourable  man  here,  and 
that  is  you! 

GASTON.  Let  us  drop  that!  In  stealing  from  me  the 
secret  of  my  fault,  you  have  forfeited  the  right  to  judge  it. 
There  is  but  one  thing  more  sacred  than  the  lock  of  a  safe. 
Monsieur,  and  that  is  the  seal  of  a  letter  —  because  it  cannot 
defend  itself. 

VERDELET.      [To  POIRIER]     What  did  I  tell  you? 

POIRIER,      This  is  ridiculous!      Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 

a  father  hasn't  the  right ?      Why,  I'm  doing  you  a  great 

favour  even  to  answer  you!  You'll  explain  in  court.  Monsieur 
le  marquis. 

VERDELET.       In  court! 

POIRIER.  Do  you  think  a  man  can  bring  despair  and  sin 
into  our  family  and  not  be  punished?  I'll  have  a  divorce, 
Monsieur! 

GASTON.  Will  you  drag  all  this  into  court?  Where  that 
letter  will  be  read? 

POIRIER.      In  public!      Yes,  Monsieur,  in  public. 

VERDELET.      You're  crazy,  Poirier.      Think  of  the  scandal! 

GASTON.  Of  course,  you're  forgetting:  a  woman  will  lose 
her  reputation! 

POIRIER.  Now,  say  something  about  her  honour!  Yes,  I 
expected  that! 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  125 

GASTON.  Yes,  her  honour,  and  if  that  isn't  enough  to 
dissuade  you,  her  ruin 

POIRIER.  So  much  the  better!  I'm  deUghted!  She 
will  get  all  she  deserves,  the ! 

GASTON.      Monsieur ! 

POIRIER.  She'll  get  no  sympathy!  To  take  a  husband 
from  his  poor  young  wife,  after  three  months  of  marriage! 

GASTON.  She  is  less  to  blame  than  I.  I  am  the  only  one 
you  should  accuse 

POIRIER.  You  needn't  worry:  I  despise  you  as  the 
lowest  of  the  low!  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  To 
sacrifice  a  charming  woman  like  Antoinette!  Has  she  ever 
given  you  cause  for  complaint?  Find  a  single  fault,  a  single 
one,  in  order  to  excuse  yourself!  She  has  a  heart  of  gold  — 
and  what  eyes!  And  her  education!  You  know  what  it 
cost,  me,  Verdelet! 

VERDELET.      Do  keep  calm,  Poirier! 

POIRIER.  I  am,  am  I  not?  If  I  only  —  No,  there  is 
justice  —  I'm  going  to  see  my  lawyer  at  once. 

GASTON.  Please  wait  until  tomorrow,  Monsieur,  I  beg 
you.      Just  take  time  to  think  it  over. 

POIRIER.       I  have  thought  it  over. 

GASTON,  [ro  verdelet]  Please  help  me  to  prevent 
him  from  committing  an  irreparable  blunder.  Monsieur. 

VERDELET.      Ah,  you  don't  know  him! 

GASTON.  [To  poirier]  Take  care.  Monsieur.  It  is 
my  duty  to  save  that  woman,  save  her  at  any  price.  Let 
me  tell  you  that  I  am  responsible  for  everything. 

POIRIER.       I  know  that  very  well. 

GASTON.      You  have  no  idea  how  desperate  I  can  be. 

POIRIER.      So  you're  threatening? 

GASTON.  Yes,  I  am  threatening.  Give  me  that  letter. 
You  are  not  going  to  leave  this  room  until  I  have  it. 

POIRIER.      Violence,  eh?      Must  I    ring  for  the  servants? 

GASTON.  That's  so — I'm  losing  my  head.  At  least, 
listen  to  me.     You   are  not   naturally  mean;    you   are  just 


126  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

angry.  And  now  your  sorrow  makes  you  so  excited  that  you 
have  no  idea  what  you  are  doing. 

POIRIER.  I  have  a  right  to  be  angry,  and  my  sorrow  is 
decent  and  fitting. 

GASTON.  I  have  told  you,  Monsieur,  I  confess  I  am  to 
blame;  I  am  sorry.  But  if  I  promised  you  never  to  see 
Madame  de  Montjay  again,  if  I  swore  that  I  would  spend 
my  life  in  trying  to  make  your  daughter  happy ? 

POIRIER.  It  would  merely  be  the  second  time  you  have 
sworn!      Let's  stop  this  nonsense! 

GASTON.  Very  well.  You  were  right  this  morning: 
it  is  lack  of  an  occupation  that  has  been  my  ruin. 

POIRIER.      Ah,  now,  you  admit  it! 

GASTON.      Well,  what  if  I  took  a  position? 

POIRIER.      You ?      A  position? 

GASTON.  You  have  the  right  to  doubt  my  word,  that  is 
true,  but  I  ask  you  to  keep  that  letter,  and  if  I  fail  to  keep 
my  promise,  you  can  always 

VERDELET.      That's  a  good  guarantee,  Poirier. 

POIRIER.      A  guarantee  of  what? 

VERDELET.  That  he  will  stand  by  his  promise:  that  he 
will  never  see  that  lady  again,  that  he  will  take  a  position, 
and  make  your  daughter  happy.      What  more  can  you  ask? 

POIRIER.       I  see,  but  what  assurance  can  I  have? 

VERDELET.      The  letter!      What  the  devil,  the  letter! 

POIRIER.      That's  so,  yes,  that's  so. 

VERDELET.  Well,  do  you  accept?  Anything  is  better 
than  a  divorce. 

POIRIER.  I  don't  quite  agree  with  that,  but  if  you  insist 
—  ^ To /Ac  marquis]]  For  my  part.  Monsieur,  I  am  willing  to 
accept  your  offer.     Now  we  have  only  to  consult  my  daughter. 

VERDELET.      She  will  surely  not  want  any  scandal. 

POIRIER.  Let's  go  and  find  her.  [7©  GASTONJ  Believe 
me.  Monsieur,  my  only  object  in  all  this  is  to  insure  my 
daughter's  happiness.  And  the  proof  of  my  own  sincerity 
is  that  I  expect  nothing  from  you,  that  I  will  receive  no  favour 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  127 

from  your  hands,  that  I  am  firmly  decided  to  remain  the 
same  plain  business  man  I  have  always  been. 

VERDELET.      Good,  Poirier! 

POIRIER.  [To  VERDELET]  So  long,  at  least,  as  he  doesn't 
make  my  daughter  so  happy  that  —  \^They  go  ouQ 

GASTON.  Blame  it  on  yourself.  Marquis  de  Presles.  What 
humiliations!  Ah,  Madame  de  Mont  jay!  This  is  the  hour 
of  my  fate.  What  are  they  going  to  do  with  me?  Con- 
demn me,  or  that  unfortunate  woman?  Shame,  or  remorse? 
And  it  has  all  been  because  of  one  caprice  —  a  single  day! 
Blame  it  on  yourself,  Marquis  de  Presles  —  you  have  no  one 
else  to  blame.      [^He  stands  plunged  in  thought] 

Enter  the  DUKE,  ivho  comes  up  to  GASTON  and  slaps  him  on 
the  shoulder. 

DUKE.      What's  the  matter? 

GASTON.  You  know  what  my  father-in-law  asked  me  this 
morning? 

DUKE.      Yes. 

GASTON.  What  if  I  told  you  I  were  going  to  accede  to 
his  wishes? 

DUKE.      I  should  say,  impossible! 

GASTON.      And  yet  it's  a  fact:     I   am. 

DUKE.  Are  you  crazy?  You  said  yourself  that  if  there 
was  one  man  who  had  not  the  right 

GASTON.  It  must  be.  My  father-in-law  has  opened  a 
letter  to  me  from  Madame  de  Montjay.  He  was  so  angry 
that  he  declared  he  would  take  it  to  a  lawyer.  In  order  to 
stop  that,  I  had  to  accept  his  conditions. 

DUKE.      Poor  fellow!      You  are  in  a  difficult  situation! 

GASTON.  Pontgrimaud  would  be  rendering  me  a  great 
service  if  he  were  to  kill  me  tomorrow. 

DUKE.      Come,  come,  put  that  idea  out  of  your  head. 

GASTON.      That  would  be  a  solution. 

DUKE.  You  are  only  twenty-five  —  you  still  have  a  happy 
life  before  you. 


128  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.  Life?  Look  at  my  situation:  I  am  ruined, 
I  am  the  slave  of  a  father-in-law  whose  despotism  makes 
capital  of  my  faults,  husband  of  a  wife  whom  I  have  cruelly 
wounded,  and  who  will  never  forget.  You  say  that  I  may 
have  a  happy  life  before  me,  but  I  tell  you  I  am  disgusted 
with  life  and  with  myself!  My  cursed  foolishness,  my 
caprices,  have  brought  me  to  a  point  where  I  have  lost  every- 
thing: liberty,  domestic  happiness,  the  esteem  of  the  world, 
self-respect.      How  horrible! 

DUKE.      Courage,  my  friend.      Don't  lose  hope! 

GASTON.  [_Rismg2  Yes,  I  am  a  coward.  A  gentleman 
may  lose  everything  except  his  honour. 

DUKE.      What  are  you  going  to  do? 

GASTON.      What  you  would  do  in  my  place. 

DUKE.       I  should  not  kill  myself!      No! 

GASTON.  You  see,  then,  you  have  guessed  —  Shh!  I 
have  only  my  name  now,  and  I  want  to  keep  that  intact. 
Someone's  coming! 

Enter  POIRIER,  ANTOINETTE,  and  VERDELET. 

ANTOINETTE.  No,  father,  no.  It's  impossible.  All  is 
over  between  Monsieur  de  Presles  and  me! 

VERDELET.  I  can't  believe  it's  you  speaking,  my  dear 
child. 

POIRIER.  But  I  tell  you,  he  is  going  to  take  a  position! 
He  has  promised  never  to  see  that  woman  again.  He's 
going  to  make  you  happy! 

ANTOINETTE.  Happiness  is  no  longer  possible  for  me. 
If  Monsieur  de  Presles  has  not  been  able  to  love  me  of  his 
own  accord,  do  you  think  he  can  ever  love  me  when  he  is 
forced  to? 

'POIRIER.      [To  the  MARQUIS]     Speak,  Monsieur. 

ANTOINETTE.  Monsieur  de  Presles  says  nothing,  because 
he  knows  I  will  not  beheve  him.  He  is  well  aware,  too,  that 
every  bond  which  held  us  together  has  been  broken,  and  that 
he  can  never  be  anything  but  a  stranger  to  me.      Let  us  each 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  129 

therefore  take  what  liberty  the  law  allows  us.  I  want  a 
separation,  father.  Give  me  that  letter:  it  is  mine  and 
mine  alone,  to  make  what  use  of  I  please.      Give  it  to  me. 

POIRIER.  Please,  my  child,  think  of  the  scandal.  It 
will  affect  us  all. 

ANTOINETTE.      It   will   harm  only   those   who   are   guilty. 

VERDELET.      Think  of  that  woman  whom  you  will  ruin  — 

ANTOINETTE.  Did  she  have  pity  on  me?  Father,  give 
me  the  letter.  It  is  not  as  your  daughter  that  I  ask  for  it, 
but  as  the  outraged  Marquise  de  Presles. 

POIRIER.  There.  But  I  tell  you,  he  is  willing  to  take  a 
position 

ANTIONETTE.  Give  it  to  me.  [lo  the  MARQUIS]  Here 
is  my  revenge,  Monsieur;  I  have  you  absolutely  in  my 
power.  You  placed  your  own  honour  at  stake  in  order  to 
save  your  mistress;  I  absolve  you  in  this  way.  \^She  tears 
up  the  letter  and  throws  it  into  the  fi.replace\ 

POIRIER.      Well  — !      What's  she  done? 

ANTOINETTE.      My  duty. 

VERDELET.      Dear  child!      {He  kisses  her"} 

DUKE.      Noble  heart! 

GASTON.      Ah,   Madame,   how   can    I   hope  to  express  to 

you ?      I  was  so  haughty  and  proud  —  I  thought  I  had 

made  a  misalliance,  but  I  see  that  you  bear  my  name  better 
than  I!  My  whole  life  will  not  suffice  to  make  up  for  the 
evil  I  have  done  you. 

ANTOINETTE.      I    am   a   widow,    Monsieur {She  takes 

VERDELET'S  arm  and  starts  to  leave,  as  the  curtain  jails] 


FOURTH  ACT 

[The  scene  is  the  same.     ANTOINETTE    is  seated  between  VER- 
DELET and  POIRIER] 

VERDELET.      I  tell  you  you  still  love  him. 
POIRIER.      I  tell  you  you  hate  him. 


]  30  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LA  W 


VERDELET.      No,  no,  Poirier 

POIRIER.  Yes,  I  say!  Evidently  what  happened  yester- 
day is  not  enough  for  you!  I  suppose  you'd  like  to  see  that 
good-for-nothing  carry  her  off  now? 

VERDELET,  I  don't  want  Antoinette's  whole  life  ruined, 
but  from  the  way  you  go  about  things  I 

POIRIER.  I  go  about  things  the  way  I  want  to,  Verdelet. 
It's  all  very  well  and  easy  to  play  the  part  of  mediator,  but 
you're  not  at  swords'  points  with  the  Marquis.  Once  let 
him  carry  her  off  and  you'd  be  always  with  her,  while  I'd 
be  sitting  alone  in  my  hole  like  an  old  screech-owl  —  that's 
what  you'd  like!  I  know  you!  You're  selfish,  like  all  old 
bachelors! 

VERDELET  Take  care,  Poirier!  Are  you  positive  that 
while  you're  pushing  things  to  extremes,  you  yourself  are  not 
acting  selfishly ? 

POIRIER.  Ha,  so  I'm  the  selfish  one,  am  I?  Because 
I'm  trying  to  safeguard  my  girl's  happiness?  Because  I 
have  no  intention  of  allowing  that  blackguardly  son-in-law 
of  mine  to  take  my  child  from  me  and  make  her  life  a  torture! 
{To  ANTOINETTE]  Say  something,  can't  you?  It  concerns 
you  more  than  it  does  us! 

ANTOINETTE.  I  don't  love  him  any  more,  Tony.  He 
crushed  out  of  my  heart  everything  that  made  me  love  him. 

POIRIER.      You  see! 

ANTOINETTE.  I  don't  hate  him,  father;  I  am  simply 
indifferent  to  him.      I  don't  know  him  any  more. 

POIRIER.      That's  enough  for  me. 

VERDELET.  But,  my  poor  Toinon,  you  are  just  begin- 
ning life.  Have  you  ever  thought  what  would  become  of  you 
as  a  divorced  woman?      Did  you  ever  consider ? 

POIRIER.  Verdelet,  never  mind  your  sermons!  She 
won't  have  a  very  hard  time  of  it  with  her  good  old  father, 
who  is  going  to  spend  all  his  time  loving  her  and  taking  care 
of  her.  You'll  see,  dearie,  what  a  lovely  life  we'll  lead,  we 
tvio —  [jndicating  VERDELET]— we  three!      And   I'm  worth 


MONSIEUR  POIRIEKS  SON-IN-LAW  131 

more  than  you,  you  selfish  brute!  You'll  see  how  we'll  love 
you,  and  do  everything  in  the  world  for  you.  We  won't 
leave  you  alone  here  and  run  after  countesses!  Now,  smile 
at  your  father,  and  say  you're  happy  with  him. 

ANTOINETTE.      Yes,  father,  very  happy. 

POIRIER.      Hear  that,  Verdelet? 

VERDELET.      Yes,  yes. 

POIRIER.  Now,  as  for  your  rascal  of  a  husband  —  why, 
you've  been  much  too  good  to  him.  We  have  him  in  our 
power  at  last.  I'll  allow  him  a  thousand  crowns  a  year,  and 
he  can  go  hang  himself. 

ANTOINETTE.      Let  him  take  everything   I  have. 

POIRIER.      Oh,  no! 

ANTOINETTE.  I  ask  only  one  thing:  never  to  see  him 
again. 

POIRIER.  He'll  hear  from  me  before  long.  I've  just 
delivered  a  last  blow. 

ANTOINETTE.      What  have  you  done? 

POIRIER.  Offered  the  Chateau  de  Presles  for  sale,  the 
chateau  of  his  worthy  ancestors. 

ANTOINETTE.  Have  you  done  that?  And  would  you 
allow  him,  Tony? 

VERDELET.      \^Aside  to  ANTOINETTE]      Don't  worry. 

POIRIER.  Yes,  I  have.  The  land  speculators  know  their 
business,  and  I  hope  that  in  a  month's  time  that  vestige  of 
feudalism  will  have  disappeared  and  no  longer  soil  the  land  of  a 
free  people.  They'll  plant  beets  over  the  site.  From  the  old 
materials  they  will  build  huts  for  workingmen:  useful  farmers 
and  vine-growers.  The  park  of  his  fathers  will  be  cut  down 
and  the  wood  sawed  into  little  pieces,  which  will  be  burned  in 
the  fireplaces  of  good  bourgeois,  who  have  earned  the  money 
to  buy  firewood  for  themselves.  And  I  myself  will  buy  a 
cord  or  two  for  my  own  use. 

ANTOINETTE.      But  he  will  think  this  is  all  revenge. 

POIRIER.      He  will  be  perfectly  right. 

ANTOINETTE.      He  will  think  it  is  I  who 


132  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

VERDELET.  \^Aside  to  ANTOINETTE]  Don't  worry,  my 
dear. 

POIRIER.  I'm  going  to  see  if  the  signs  are  ready.  They're 
going  to  be  huge,  huge  enough  to  cover  the  great  walls  all 
over  Paris:    "For  sale,  the  Chateau  de  Presles"! 

VERDELET.      Perhaps  it's  already  sold! 

POIRIER.  Since  last  evening?  Nonsense!  I'm  going  to 
the  printer's.      []//e  goes  ouQ 

VERDELET.  Your  father  is  absurd.  If  we  let  him  have 
his  way,  he'd  make  any  reconciliation  impossible  between  you 
and  your  husband. 

ANTOINETTE.  But  what  can  you  possibly  hope  for,  poor 
Tony?  My  love  has  fallen  from  too  great  a  height  to  be  able 
ever  to  rise  again.  You  can  have  no  idea  how  much  Mon- 
sieur de  Presles  meant  to  me 

VERDELET.      Oh,  indeed  I  can. 

ANTOINETTE.  He  was  not  only  a  husband,  but  a  master 
whose  slave  I  was  proud  to  be.  I  not  only  loved  him,  I 
admired  him  as  a  great  representative  of  a  former  age.  Oh, 
Tony,  what  a  horrible  awakening  I've  had! 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  Monsieur  le  marquis  asks  whether  Madame 
will  see  him? 

ANTOINETTE.      No. 

VERDELET.  See  him,  dear.  [To  the  SERVANT]  Mon- 
sieur le  marquis  may  come  in.      \^The  SERVANT  goes  out^ 

ANTOINETTE.      What  good  can  come  of  it? 

Enter  GASTON. 

GASTON.  You  need  have  no  apprehension,  Madame,  I 
shall  not  trouble  you  long  with  my  company.  You  said 
yesterday  that  you  considered  yourself  a  widow,  and  I  am  far 
too  guilty  not  to  feel  that  your  decision  is  irrevocable.  I 
have  come  to  say  good-bye  to  you. 

VERDELET.      What's  this.  Monsieur? 


MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW  133 

GASTON.  Yes,  I  am  going  to  do  the  only  honourable  thing 
that  remains.      You  should  be  able  to  understand  that. 

VERDELET.      But,  Monsieur ? 

GASTON.  I  understand.  Fear  nothing  for  the  future, 
and  reassure  Monsieur  Poirier.  There  is  one  position  I  can 
take,  that  of  my  father:  in  the  army.  I  am  leaving  to- 
morrow for  Africa  with  Monsieur  de  Montmeyran,  who  has 
been  good  enough  to  sacrifice  his  leave  of  absence  for  my  sake. 

VERDELET.  [_Aside  to  ANTOINETTE]  What  a  splendid 
fellow! 

ANTOINETTE.  \^Aside  to  VERDELET]  I  never  said  he  was 
a  coward! 

VERDELET.  Now,  my  dear  children,  don't  do  anything 
extreme.  Monsieur  le  marquis,  you  are  very  much  at  fault, 
but  I  am  sure  that  you  ask  nothing  better  than  to  make 
amends. 

GASTON.      If  there  were  anything   I   could  do !      [^A 

pause]  There  is  nothing— I  know!  [To  ANTOINETTE]  I 
leave  you  my  name,  Madame;  I  am  sure  you  will  keep  it 
spotless.  I  carry  away  with  me  the  remorse  of  having 
troubled  your  existence,  but  you  are  still  young  and  beautiful, 
and  war  carries  with  it  happy  chances 

Enter  the   DUKE. 

DUKE.      I  have  come  to  get  him. 

GASTON.  Come.  [^Offering  his  hand  to  VERDELET]  Good- 
bye, Monsieur  Verdelet.  \^They  embrace]  Good-bye, 
Madame  —  for  always. 

DUKE.      For  always!      He  loves  you,  Madame. 

GASTON.      Hush! 

VERDELET.  He  loves  you  desperately.  The  moment 
he  came  from  the  black  abyss  from  which  you  have  helped  him, 
his  eyes  were  opened.      He  has  seen  you  as  you  really  are. 

ANTOINETTE.  Mademoiselle  Poirier  has  triumphed  over 
Madame  de  Mont  jay.      How  admirable! 

VERDELET.      You  are  cruel! 


134  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.  She  is  only  doing  justice,  Monsieur.  She  was 
worthy  of  the  purest  love,  and  I  married  her  for  her  money. 
I  made  a  bargain,  a  bargain  which  I  was  not  honest  enough 
to  abide  by.  [To  ANTOINETTE]  Yes,  the  very  day  after 
our  marriage  I  sacrificed  you,  out  of  pure  viciousness,  for  a 
woman  who  is  far  beneath  you.  Your  youth,  your  charm, 
your  purity,  were  not  enough;  no,  in  order  to  bring  Ught  to 
this  darkened  heart  it  was  necessary  for  you  to  save  my  honour 
twice  on  the  same  day!  How  low  I  was  to  resist  such  devo- 
tion, and  what  does  my  love  now  prove?  Can  it  possibly 
reinstate  me  in  your  eyes?  When  I  loved  you  I  did  what 
any  man  in  my  place  would  have  done;  in  blinding  myself  to 
your  virtues  and  your  splendid  qualities  I  did  what  no  one  else 
would  have  done.  You  are  right,  Madame,  to  despise  a  man 
who  is  utterly  unworthy  of  you.  I  have  lost  all,  even  the 
right  to  pity  myself  —  I  don't  pity  myself.  —  Come,  Hector. 

DUKE.  Wait.  Do  you  know  where  he  is  going,  Madame? 
To  fight  a  duel. 

VERDELET  and  ANTOINETTE.      To  fight  a  duel? 

GASTON.      What  are  you  saying? 

DUKE.  Well,  if  your  wife  doesn't  love  you  any  longer, 
there  is  no  reason  for  hiding  the  truth.  Yes,  Madame,  he  is 
going  to  fight  a  duel. 

ANTOINETTE.      Oh,  Tony,  his  life  is  in  danger ! 

DUKE.  What  difference  does  that  make  to  you,  Madame? 
Is  it  possible  that  everything  is  not  over  between  you,  then? 

ANTOINETTE.  Oh,  no:  everything  is  over.  Monsieur  de 
Presles  may  dispose  of  his  life  as  he  thinks  best  —  he  owes 
me  nothing 

DUKE.  [To  GASTON]  Come,  then  — [TAey  go  as  far  as 
the  doo/] 

ANTOINETTE.      Gaston! 

DUKE.      You  see,  she  still  loves  you! 

GASTON.  [^Throwins  himself  at  her  feet"]  Oh,  Madame,  if 
that  is  true,  if  I  still  have  a  place  in  your  affection,  say  some 
word  —  give  me  the  wish  to  live. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIEKS  SON-IN-LAW  135 

Enter  POIRIER. 

POIRIER.      What  are  you  doing  there,  Monsieur  le  marquis? 

ANTOINETTE.      He  is  going  to  fight  a  duel! 

POIRIER.  A  duel?  And  are  you  the  least  bit  surprised? 
Mistresses,  duels  —  that's  to  be  expected.  He  who  has  land 
has  war. 

ANTOINETTE.  What  do  you  mean,  father?  Do  you 
imagine ? 

POIRIER.       I'd  wager  my  head  on  it. 

ANTOINETTE.  That's  not  true,  is  it.  Monsieur?  You 
don't  answer? 

POIRIER.  Do  you  think  he  would  be  honest  enough  to 
admit  it? 

GASTON.  I  cannot  lie,  Madame.  This  duel  is  the  last 
remnant  of  an  odious  past. 

POIRIER.      He's  a  fool  to  confess  it!      The  impudence! 

ANTOINETTE.  And  I  was  led  to  understand  that  you  still 
loved  me!  I  was  even  ready  to  forgive  you  —  while  you 
were  on  the  point  of  fighting  a  duel  for  your  mistress!  Why, 
this  was  a  trap  for  my  weakness.      Ah,  Monsieur  le  due! 

DUKE.  He  has  already  told  you,  Madame,  that  this  duel 
was  the  remnant  of  a  past  which  he  detests  and  wants  to  lay  at 
rest  and  obliterate. 

VERDELET.  [To  the  MARQUIS]  Very  well.  Monsieur,  then 
I  have  a  simple  plan:  if  you  don't  love  Madame  de  Montjay 
any  longer,  then  don't  fight  for  her. 

GASTON.      What,  Monsieur,  make  excuses? 

VERDELET.  You  must  give  Antoinette  a  proof  of  your 
sincerity,  and  this  is  the  only  one  which  you  can  give.  Then 
didn't  you  just  now  ask  for  something  to  do  as  an  expiation? 
Time  was  the  only  proof  she  could  impose.  Aren't  you  happy 
that  you  now  have  a  chance,  and  that  you  can  give  that  proof 
at  once?  I  know  it's  a  great  sacrifice,  but  if  it  were  any  less, 
could  it  be  a  real  expiation? 

POIRIER.      [Aside2    The  fool!      He's  going  to  patch  it  up. 


136  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.  I  would  gladly  sacrifice  my  life,  but  my  honour 
—  the  Marquise  de  Presles  would  never  accept  that  sort  of 
sacrifice. 

ANTOINETTE.  What  if  you  were  mistaken,  Monsieur? 
What  if  I  would  accept  it? 

GASTON.      What,  Madame,  would  you  ask  me ? 

ANTOINETTE.  To  do  for  me  almost  as  much  as  you  would 
for  Madame  de  Mont  jay?  Yes,  Monsieur.  For  her  sake  you 
consented  to  forget  the  past  of  your  family,  and  now  would 
you  refuse  to  forget  a  duel,  a  duel  which  is  most  offensive  to 
me?  How  can  I  believe  in  your  love,  if  it  is  less  strong  than 
your  pride? 

POIRIER.  Then  what  good  would  a  sword-scratch  do  you? 
Take  my  word  for  it,  prudence  is  the  mother  of  seifety. 

VERDELET.      [^Aside]     Old  fool! 

GASTON.      See?      That  is  what  people  will  say. 

ANTOINETTE.  Who  would  doubt  your  courage?  Haven't 
you  given  ample  proofs  of  it? 

POIRIER.  And  then  what  do  you  care  for  the  opinion  of  a 
lot  of  know-nothings?  You  will  have  the  respect  of  my  friends, 
and  that  ought  to  be  enough 

GASTON.  You  see,  Madame,  people  would  laugh  at  me,  and 
you  could  not  love  a  ridiculous  man  very  long. 

DUKE.  No  one  would  laugh  at  you.  Let  me  take  your 
excuses  to  the  ground,  and  I  promise  there  will  be  no  levity. 

GASTON.      What!      Do  you  too  think  that ? 

DUKE.  Yes,  my  friend.  Your  affair  is  not  one  of  those 
that  can't  possibly  be  arranged.  The  sacrifice  your  wife  is 
asking  affects  only  your  own  personal  pride. 

GASTON.      But  to  make  excuses  on  the  ground ? 

POIRIER.       I  would! 

VERDELET.  Really,  Poirier,  one  might  think  you  were 
trying  to  make  him  fight! 

POIRIER.       I'm  doing  all  in  my  power  to  prevent  him. 

DUKE,  Come,  Gaston,  you  have  no  right  to  refuse  your 
wife  this  proof. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIERS  SON-IN-LAW  137 

GASTON.      Well  —  no!       It's  out  of  the  question! 

ANTOINETTE.      That  is  the  price  of  my  forgiveness. 

GASTON.  Then  I  refuse  it,  Madame.  I  shan't  carry  my 
sorrow  very  long, 

POIRIER.  Nonsense.  Don't  listen  to  him,  dearie.  Wait 
till  he  has  his  sword  in  his  hand:  he'll  defend  himself,  I  tell  you. 
It  would  be  like  an  expert  swimmer  trying  to  drown  himself: 
once  in  the  water,  the  devil  himself  couldn't  keep  him  from 
saving  himself. 

ANTOINETTE.  If  Madame  de  Montjay  objected  to  your 
fighting  you  would  give  in  to  her.      Good-bye. 

GASTON.      Antoinette,  for  God's  sake ! 

DUKE.      She  is  exactly  right. 

GASTON.      Excuses!      I  offer  excuses! 

ANTIONETTE.  I  see,  you  are  thinking  only  of  your  own 
pride! 

DUKE.  Gaston!  Give  in!  I  swear  I  would  do  the  same 
in  your  place. 

GASTON.  Very  well  —  but  to  Pontgrimaud!  Go  without 
me,  then. 

DUKE.  [To  ANTOINETTE]  Madame,  are  you  now  satisfied 
with  him? 

ANTOINETTE.  Yes,  Gaston,  you  have  now  made  up  for 
everything.  I  have  nothing  else  to  forgive  you;  I  believe  in 
you,  I  am  happy,  and  I  love  you.  [The  MARQUIS  stands  still, 
his  head  bowed.  ANTOINETTE  goes  to  him,  takes  his  head  in  her 
hands,  and  pisses  his  forehead^     Now  go  and  fight!      Go! 

GASTON.      My  dearest  wife,  you  have  my  mother's  heart  I 

ANTOINETTE.      No,  my  mother's.  Monsieur 

POIRIER.      [Aside']     What  idiots  women  are! 

GASTON.      [To  the  DUKE]     Quick,  or  we  shall  be  late! 

ANTOINETTE.      You  are  a  good  swordsman,  are  you  not? 

DUKE.  He's  as  good  as  St.  George,  Madame,  and  he  has 
a  wrist  of  steel.      Monsieur  Poirier,  pray  for  Pontgrimaud! 

ANTOINETTE.  [To  GASTON]  Please  don't  kill  the  young 
man. 


138  MONSIEUR  POIRIEKS  SON-IN-LAW 

GASTON.  I'll  let  him  off  with  a  scratch  —  because  you 
love  me.      Come,  Hector. 

Enter  a  SERVANT  with  a  letter  on  a  silver  plate. 

ANTOINETTE.      Another  letter? 

GASTON.      Open  it  yourself. 

ANTOINETTE.  It  will  be  the  first  of  yours  that  I  have 
opened. 

GASTON.       I  am  sure  of  that. 

ANTOINETTE.  [Opening  the  leHer~\  It  is  from  Monsieur 
de  Pontgrimaud. 

GASTON.      Bah! 

ANTOINETTE.      [jKeadini]    "My  dear  Marquis " 

GASTON.      Snob! 

ANTOINETTE.      "  We  have  both  proved  our  valour  " 

GASTON.       In  different  ways,  however! 

ANTOINETTE.  "I  therefore  have  no  hesitation  in  telling 
you  that  I  regret  having  for  a  moment  lost  my  head" 

GASTON.      /  was  the  one  who  lost  mine! 

ANTOINETTE.  "  You  are  the  only  man  in  the  world  to  whom 
I  should  think  of  making  excuses." 

GASTON.      You  flatter  me,  Monsieur. 

ANTOINETTE.  "And  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  will  accept 
them  as  gallantly  as  they  are  offered." 

GASTON.      Exactly! 

ANTOINETTE.  "With  all  my  heart,  Viscount  de  Pontgri- 
maud." 

DUKE.  He  is  not  a  viscount,  he  has  no  heart.  ^  Otherwise 
his  letter  is  most  appropriate. 

VERDELET.  {To  GASTON]  Everything  has  turned  out 
splendidly,  my  dear  boy.  I  hope  you  have  learned  your 
lesson? 

GASTON.  For  the  rest  of  my  life,  dear  Monsieur  Verdelet. 
From  this  day  on  I  begin  a  serious  and  calm  existence.      In 

^  Here  follows  a  pun  on  "Pont"  —  "bridge,"  —  and  "grimaud"  —  "scrib- 
bler."—Tr. 


MONSIEUR  POIRIEKS  SON-IN-LAW  139 

order  to  break  definitely  with  the  follies  of  my  past,  I  ask  you 
for  a  place  in  your  office. 

VERDELET.       In  my  office!      You!      A  gentleman! 

GASTON.      Have  I  not  my  wife  to  support? 

DUKE,  You  will  do  as  the  Breton  nobles  did,  when  they 
laid  down  their  swords  in  Parliament  to  enter  the  field  of  com- 
merce, and  took  them  up  again  after  having  set  their  houses 
in  order. 

VERDELET.      Very  good.  Monsieur  le  marquis. 

POIRIER.  \_Aside\  It's  now  my  turn  to  give  in.  []/i/ouc?J 
My  dear  son-in-law,  that  is  a  most  liberal  sentiment;  you  really 
deserve  to  be  a  bourgeois.  Now  that  we  can  understand  each 
other,  let  us  make  peace.      Stay  with  me. 

GASTON.  I  ask  for  nothing  better  than  to  make  my  peace 
with  you.  Monsieur.  But  as  to  staying  with  you,  that  is 
another  matter.  You  have  made  me  understand  the  happi- 
ness which  the  wood-chopper  feels  when  he  is  master  of  his  own 
home.     I  do  not  blame  you,  but  I  cannot  help  remembering. 

POIRIER.  Are  you  going  to  take  away  my  daughter?  Are 
you  going  to  leave  me  alone? 

ANTOINETTE.       I'll  come  to  see  you  often,  father. 

GASTON.      And  you  will  always  be  welcome. 

POIRIER.  So  my  daughter  is  going  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
tradesman! 

VERDELET.  No,  Poirier,  your  daughter  will  be  mistress  of 
the  Chateau  de  Presles.  The  chateau  was  sold  this  morning, 
and,  with  the  permission  of  your  husband,  Toinon,  it  will  be 
my  wedding  present. 

ANTOINETTE.      Dear  Tony!      May  I  accept  it,  Gaston? 

GASTON.  Monsieur  Verdelet  is  one  of  those  to  whom  it  is 
a  pleasure  to  be  grateful. 

VERDELET.  I  am  retiring  from  business,  and,  if  you  will 
allow  me,  I  shall  come  and  live  with  you,  Monsieur  le  marquis. 
We  shall  cultivate  your  land  together.  That  is  a  gentleman's 
profession. 

POIRIER.      Well,  what  about  me,  then?      Aren't  you  going 


140  MONSIEUR  POIRIER'S  SON-IN-LAW 

to  invite  me?  All  children  are  ungrateful  —  yes,  my  poor 
father  was  right. 

VERDELET.     Buy  some  land,  and  live  near  us. 

POIRIER.      That's  an  idea! 

VERDELET.  That's  all  you  have  to  do;  and  besides  — 
you're  cured  of  your  ambition,  aren't  you?      I  think  you  are. 

POIRIER.  Yes,  yes.  [^Aside]  Let  me  see:  this  is  1846. 
I'll  be  deputy  of  the  arrondissement  of  Presles  in  forty-seven, 
and  peer  of  France  in  forty-eight! 

CURTAIN 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

[LES  FOURCHAMBAULT] 
A  COMEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 

First  produced  at  the  Comidit  Franqaise,  Paris,  in  1 878. 

Edmond  Got, 

Dean  of  the  Comedie-Francaise, 
My  Old  Friend,  — We  have  arm  in  arm  made  our  careers 
together,  aiding  each  other  on  the  way.  At  this  moment,  as  we 
are  nearing  the  end,  as  we  are  almost  touching  the  goal,  I  think 
it  well  for  us  to  show  our  friendship  coram  populo,  and  by  way  of 
doing  so,  I  beg  you  to  accept  this  dedication  which  I  offer  you 

with  all  my  heart, 

EMILE  AUGIER 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

[ORIGINAL  PRODUCTION] 
FOURCHAMBAULT  (.60  years)  MM.  Barri 

LEOPOLD,  HIS   SON  (24  years)  Coquelin 

BERNARD  (38  years)  Cot 

BARON  RASTIBOULOIS.  PREFECT  OF  SEINE-ET-MAUCHE 

(55  years)  Thiron 

MADAME   FOURCHAMBAULT  (47  years)  MMES.  Prooost-Ponsin 

MADAME   BERNARD  (60  years)  Agar 

BLANCHE  (18  years)  Reichemberg 

MARIE   LETELLIER  (22  years)  Croizelte 

SCENE: —  The  First  Act  ia  laid  in  IngMtoiUe:  the  others  in  Le  Haore. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 
ACT  I 

SCENE:  — At  the  Villa  Fourchambault,  Ingoucille.  —  A  drawing- 
room  on  the  ground-floor,  opening  upon  a  terrace  from  which 
can  be  seen  Le  Havre  and  the  sea.  —  A  large  entrance  at  the 
back,  which  remains  open;   doors  on  either  side. 

FOURCHAMBAULT  is  seated  to  the  right,  near  a  table,  read- 
ing his  paper;  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  is  MADAME  FOUR- 
CHAMBAULT, doing  crochet  work;  upstage  to  the  right,  a 
small  table,  where  BLANCHE  is  serving  coffee;  to  the  left, 
MARIE,  seated  doing  fancy-work  near  a  work-table  upon 
which  are  heaped  a  number  of  skeins  of  coloured  worsted; 
LEOPOLD,  standing  behind  her,  is  smoking  a  cigarette. 

THE  BUTLER.  [_At  the  large  door  at  the  back^  The  coachman 
wishes  to  know  whether  there  are  any  orders? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      No,  I  am  not  going  out  to-day. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  But  I  am  going  out.  —  I'm  going  to 
Le  Havre. 

LEOPOLD.      To  the  office?      On  Sunday? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  There  is  no  Sunday  for  a  banker.  You 
needn't  worry:  I  shall  leave  you  at  Ingouville.  [_To  THE 
BUTLER^]     The  victoria  in  an  hour! 

THE  BUTLER.      Anything  further? 

LEOPOLD.  Wait  a  moment,  [fo  MARIE  and  BLANCHE] 
Shall  we  go  horseback -riding,  ladies? 

BLANCHE.       I'm  tired. 

LEOPOLD.      How  about  you,  Maia? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Without  your  sister?  Are  you 
out  of  your  mind? 


144  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

BLANCHE.      That  would  be  nothing  very  extraordinary. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      It  wouldn't  be  respectable.     That 

will  do,  Germain.  m  m  c-d  -  # 

THE  BUTLER  goes  out. 

MARIE.  In  France,  then,  a  young  lady  who  goes  horseback 
riding  alone  with  a  young  man  — ?  —  is  that  "shocking"? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Very  shocking,  my  dear!  Do 
they  do  that  at  Bourbon? 

MARIE.  Oh,  we  aren't  so  careful  about  small  matters,  and 
I  assure  you  the  devil  gains  nothing. 

LEOPOLD.      [^Aside^     He  doesn't  lose  much,  either! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  must  accustom  yourself  to 
our  European  prudery. 

MARIE.  I  shall  find  it  very  difficult.  You  know  I  was 
brought  up  according  to  the  principles  of  Creole  liberty,  added  to 
those  of  the  English,  —  my  mother  came  from  the  Island  of 
Mauritius. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  But,  my  dear  child,  if  you  are  applying 
for  a  position  as  teacher  your  manners  must  be  a  little  more  — 
correct. 

MARIE.  I'll  have  them  when  they  become  necessEU^y  — 
after  I  get  the  position. 

BLANCHE.  Why  talk  about  that,  Papa?  It's  not  at  all 
pleasant. 

MARIE.  Oh,  my  dear  Blanchette,  if  I  took  everything  to 
heart,  I'd  live  a  dog's  life.  Heaven  has  denied  me  much,  but 
I'm  at  least  happy,  and  I  can  look  into  the  future  without  a 
shadow  of  doubt  or  misapprehension. 

LEOPOLD.  What  troubles  me  is  what  you  are  going  to  teach 
your  pupils.      You  don't  appear  to  be  a  well  of  knowledge. 

MARIE.  There's  where  you  are  mistaken:  I  am.  You 
might  even  come  to  school  to  me. 

LEOPOLD.  Oh,  —  oh,  you're  a  regular  Pico  della  Girandola, 
then? 

MARIE.      Mirandola,  my  poor  fellow!      One  point  for  me. 

LEOPOLD.      I  just  wanted  to  catch  you. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  145 

BLANCHE.  Yes,  the  way  you  said  the  other  day  that  Henry 
IV  was  the  son  of  Henry  Hi! 

LEOPOLD.      That  was  my  opinion  on  the  subject. 

MARIE.      Was  it  sincere? 

LEOPOLD.      And  disinterested  —  I  swear. 

MARIE.      Then  I  respect  it. 

LfiOPOLD.      [_Sighing]    Without  sharing  it! 

LEOPOLD  places  a  letter  on  the  sewing-table,  among  the  worsted 
skeins;  MARIE  turns  round  at  the  same  moment,  and  catches 
sight  of  it. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  \^Who  has  also  seen  the  letter; 
aside^    A  letter?      How  imprudent! 

MARIE.  [^Sitting  by  the  sewing-table  and  taking  up  the  letter, 
which  she  folds  twice.  —  To  LEOPOLD]  Help  me  untangle  this 
skein. 

LfiOPOLD.  Certainly.  [^He  \neels  on  one  knee  before  her; 
she  takes  the  s\ein  in  her  hands,  and  begins  to  wind  the  worsted 
round  the  letter.  —  In  an  undertone^  My  letter!  That's  not 
nice  of  you! 

MARIE.  \_As  before^  Would  you  prefer  my  giving  it  to  your 
mother? 

BLANCHE.  \_Looking  at  theni^  The  Countess  and  Cherubin, 
you  might  almost  think!  ^ 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  What's  this.  Mademoiselle,  have  you 
seen  Le  Mariage  de  Figaro  ?  [^To  his  wife^  Do  you  allow  her  to 
read  such  things? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Oh,  I  am  very  careful:  she  saw 
the  play  only  as  an  opera. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  That  is  different  —  if  it  was  at  the 
Opera,  she  understood  nothing. 

BLANCHE.      \^Aside']     No,  I'm  so  stupid. 

MARIE.      [jStill  winding  the  worsted^    Any  news? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Three  of  friend  Bernard's  ships  came  in 
yesterday  —  if  that's  of  any  interest  to  you? 

'  Characters  in  Beaumarchais'  Le  Mariage  de  Figaro. 


146  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

LEOPOLD.  Everything  that  concerns  M.  Bernard  is  of 
especial  interest  to  Mile.  Letellier. 

MARIE.      Don't  move! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  There's  a  man  who  made  a  fortune  in 
quick  time! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Wasn't  he  only  captain  of  a 
trader  when  the  Civil  War  broke  out  in  the  United  States? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Yes.  He  foresaw  how  the  war  would 
last;  he  put  everything  he  had  into  cotton,  and  then  waited. 
To-day  he's  a  millionaire,  one  of  the  principal  ship-owners  in 
Le  Havre. 

LEOPOLD.  And  his  money  has  left  him  quite  unchanged  — 
unluckily  for  him!  He  is  certainly  an  ungainly,  thick-set, 
ill-looking  fellow! 

BLANCHE.      Oh,  I  know  he's  your  pet  aversion,  so 

MARIE.      What  did  he  ever  do  to  you? 

LEOPOLD.  Nothing  —  he's  a  fearful-looking  beast,  that's 
all! 

MARIE.  I  don't  consider  him  so;  at  times  I  think  he's 
beautiful. 

LEOPOLD.      Oh!  —  When? 

MARIE.      Well  —  in  time  of  danger,  for  instance. 

LEOPOLD.      What  do  you  know  about  that? 

MARIE.  On  ship-board  when  we  were  crossing,  I  once  saw 
him  stop  an  attempted  mutiny;  and  I  tell  you  that  little  "thick- 
set" fellow  rose  to  six  feet  when  he  took  the  leader  of  the  muti- 
neers by  the  throat  and  ordered  his  accomplices  to  put  him  in 
irons. 

LEOPOLD.      And  did  they  obey? 

MARIE.  Men  don't  disobey  a  man  whose  eyes  flashed  light- 
ning the  way  his  did.  I  should  have  been  proud  at  that  mo- 
ment to  be  his  daughter  or  his  sister. 

LEOPOLD.      Why  not  his  mother,  while  you're  wishing? 

MARIE.  \^Smiling2  The  place  is  taken,  and  very  well,  let 
me  tell  you. 

BLANCHE.      What  does  she  look  like? 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  147 

MARIE.      She's  tall  and  pale,  and  has  white  hair. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Why  doesn't  he  introduce  her 
anywhere? 

LEOPOLD.  Doubtless  because  she  is  not  a  presentable  per- 
son. Maia's  friend  is  a  barnyard  peacock,  who  left  Dieppe, 
where  he  was  born,  because  there  were  too  many  witnesses  of 
his  low  birth.  He  hides  his  mother  here  as  well  as  he  is  able, 
because  she  is  also  another  indication  of  his  humble  origin. 

MARIE.  Mme.  Bernard  is  a  very  distinguished  and  worthy 
woman,  Leo.  —  Now,  the  ball  is  all  rolled.  \^She  rises  and 
puts  the  ball  in  the  worl^^basl^et^ 

LEOPOLD.  ^Also  rising;  aside^  You  have  only  to  unroll 
it,  now.     \^The  cloc\  strides  one^ 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [Rising]  One  o'clock  already! 
I  expect  a  visit,  and  my  hair  isn't  dressed  yet.  Come,  Blanche, 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      What's  this  visit? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  That  is  my  affair.  [Aside  to 
blanche]]  Someone  for  you.  Walk  ahead,  I'll  tell  you  about 
it.  [blanche  goes  out;  MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT  goes  behind 
the  sewing-table,  and  turns  oter  the  skeinf\  The  letter's  not  here 
—  and  I  was  sure  — !    [She  goes  ouf\ 

LEOPOLD.  [To  MARIE,  at  the  principal  entrance]  Shall  we 
walk  in  the  park? 

MARIE.  I'm  the  only  one  left,  then,  whom  no  one  "has  to 
talk  with";   I'll  go  and  pick  a  bouquet  for  my  birthday. 

LEOPOLD.       Is  to-day  your  birthdaV? 

MARIE.  Yes  —  every  time  I  give  myself  a  bouquet.  [She 
goes  out] 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Sit  down  there. 

LfiOPOLD.  [Sitting  near  the  sewing-table]  You  want  me 
to  sit  down?      Are  you  going  to  lecture  me? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Yes.  I'm  not  satisfied  with  you,  my 
boy. 

LEOPOLD.      Father,  I  swear  it's  not  I! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      What? 


148  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

L£0P0LD.  I  don't  know;  but  since  my  conscience  is  clear, 
I  protest  in  advance. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Try  to  be  serious  for  once  in  your  life. 
Your  behaviour  pains  and  grieves  me,  my  dear  Leopold.  You 
don't  gamble  any  longer,  you  rarely  go  to  the  Club,  you  gave  up 
the  little  dancing-girl  —  don't  deny  it!  I  have  my  information 
on  good  authority,  from  the  fathers  of  your  friends  —  they  get 
it  from  their  sons. 

LEOPOLD.  For  Heaven's  sake.  Father!  Mother  and  you 
have  given  me  so  many  sermons  on  gambling  and  dancing-girls 
that  I  thought  you'd  be  glad  to  see  me  reform.  If  I'm  mis- 
taken, there's  no  harm  done  so  far,  and  I 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Your  friends  do  not  attribute  your 
reforms  to  our  sermons,  but  to  the  arrival  at  our  home  of  Mile. 
Letellier.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  noticed  that  during  the 
past  two  months  you  have  been  quite  unnaturally  assiduous 
within  the  family  circle. 

LEOPOLD.  If  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  the  presence  of 
Maia  serves  as  an  added  attraction  to  the  house 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  To  begin  with,  you  might  call  her  Mile. 
Marie! 

LEOPOLD.  What  sort  of  quarrel  are  you  trying  to  lead  me 
into?  I  call  her  Maia  just  as  she  calls  me  Leo.  What's  the 
harm  in  calling  her  by  her  Creole  name?  Do  you  object  too 
to  my  speaking  to  her  in  her  own  native  broken  French? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  No,  I  don't!  But  in  your  underhand 
way  you  tell  her  in  that  gibberish  a  heap  of  things  you  wouldn't 
dare  say  in  French. 

LEOPOLD.      She's  no  worse  than  I  am  in  that  respect. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  are  worse  than  she;  I  know  your 
cynicism  about  women.  This  one  comes  from  a  foreign  coun- 
try, she's  poor,  and  a  bit  free  in  her  manners,  she  appears  to  you 
as  a  declassee  —  you  hope  to  —  obtain  favours  from  her.  I  tell 
you  I'd  be  heart-broken  if  anything  happened  to  her;  she's  our 
guest,  and  I  am  responsible  for  her;  I  have  great  affection  for  her, 
and  I  respect  her  highly  —  I^beg  of  you  not  to  make  love  to  her. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  149 

LEOPOLD.      What  makes  you  think  I  am? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Good  Heavens,  can't  I  see?  I've  no- 
ticed it  ever  since  I  was  told.  Your  motives  cannot  be  good. 
Now  you  must  be  made  aware  of  her  situation;  I  have  therefore 
looked  into  the  matter  and  found  your  uncle's  letter.  There, 
read  it.      [//e  gives  LEOPOLD  a  leiter] 

LfiOPOLD.  \iReading]  "  He  Bourbon,  April  1 5,  1 877.  My 
Dear  Brother-in-law.  This  letter  will  be  presented  by  Made- 
moiselle Marie  Letellier,  in  whom  the  entire  colony  has  the  most 
respectful  interest." 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      "Most  respectful,"  you  see. 

LEOPOLD.      There  are  eight  pages  to  this  letter. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Continue,  and  stop  your  talking. 

LEOPOLD.  I  don't  talk  so  much  as  my  uncle.  [^Reading^ 
"The  most  respectful  interest,"  —  You  are  perfectly  well  aware 
you  told  us  everything  that  this  contains. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      It  appears  that  you  have  forgotten  it. 

LEOPOLD.  I?  What  will  you  wager  that  I  can't  recite  the 
whole  thing  in  twenty  words,  signature  included?  Marie 
Letellier,  twenty-two  years,  born  at  Bourbon,  French  father, 
English  mother.  Ruin,  and  death  of  both  parents.  —  Orphan 
taken  under  the  protection  of  an  old  friend  of  the  family. —  At 
end  of  the  year,  death  of  old  friend  who  leaves  to  her  companion 
a  little  farm  in  Calvados.  —  Heir  leaves  for  France  in  order  to 
sell  farm 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  And  I  believe  I  have  found  a  purchaser 
who  will  pay  40,000  francs  for  it. 

LEOPOLD.  Don't  interrupt  the  report:  those  four  words 
don't  count.  With  intention  of  selling  little  farm  and  obtaining 
position  as  teacher  —  as  in  comedies.  —  While  waiting,  lodged 
in  the  domicile  of  Fourchambault  the  Elder  who,  believing  her 
very  virtuous,  fears  that  Fourchambault  Junior  might  lead  her 
astray 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  But,  God  bless  me,  she  can  be  quite 
virtuous  and  yet  fall  in  love  with  you!  And  you,  I  presume, 
leading  her  on  with  promises  of  marriage 


150  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

LEOPOLD.  An  outrageous  supposition  for  Fourchambault 
Junior  —  Leopold's  not  villainous! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  It's  not  always  out  of  villainy  that  such 
promises  are  made!  You  begin  by  flirting  with  a  pretty  girl 
just  to  pass  the  time;  soon,  a  mere  caprice  turns  into  love,  love 
into  passion,  and  you  end  by  proposing  marriage,  and  all  in 
perfectly  good  faith! 

LEOPOLD.  What  a  lot  you  know  about  it!  Have  you  gone 
through  the  same  experience  yourself? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I?  Never!  But  I  once  had  a  friend 
who  began  with  his  sister's  piano-teacher  —  like  you  and  Maia  — 
and  one  fine  day  she  found  she  was  —  er 

LEOPOLD.  Your  friend  had  no  scruples,  did  he?  And  he 
married  her? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  He  wanted  to,  and  if  the  woman  had 
been  as  irreproachable  as  Maia,  there  would  have  been  no  ob- 
stacle to  prevent  his  doing  so.  But,  luckily  for  him,  his  father 
opened  his  eyes  for  him  at  the  time  —  but  what  a  fearful  scandal 
there  was!  The  poor  boy  couldn't  marry  for  the  next  ten  years! 
Let  that  be  a  lesson  for  you. 

LEOPOLD.  Well,  if  that  could  influence  me  to  marry,  as  it 
did  your  friend,  the  only  daughter  of  a  rich  manufacturer  of 
lamp-shades 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      What's  that?      Lampshades? 

LEOPOLD.      Grandfather  Reboulin's  lamp-shades,  eh? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      But  who  told  you ? 

LEOPOLD.  That  your  friend  married  mother?  It  is  not 
hard  to  see  you  don't  go  often  to  the  theatre!  General  rule: 
when  one  character  makes  an  object-lesson  for  another  with  the 
story  of  a  friend  who  shall  be  nameless,  you  may  be  sure  it  is  no 
other  than  his  own. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Absurd!  If  you  study  life  from  com- 
edies, I  can't  wonder  at  your  despising  women.  What  my 
friend's  name  was,  is  of  no  importance  —  if  you  want  to  know, 
it  was  Durand. 

LEOPOLD.      In  leisure  moments.  —  How  old  was  he? 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  151 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Twenty-two. 

A  SERVANT.      [^Ai  the  door]      The  victoria  is  ready. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Very  well,  I'm  coming.  [To  LEOPOLD] 
I  shall  return  in  two  hours.      [^He  goes  out] 

LfiOPOLD.  [_Alone]  After  that  story  about  the  music 
teacher,  to  believe  in  the  virtue  of  female  companions  who  intend 
to  teach;  oh,  no,  it's  really  too  thin!  Especially  when  they've 
been  aboard  ship  with  quellers  of  rebellions.  Dear  Papa  is 
no  more  to  be  feared  than  a  new-born  babe!  I  can  imagine 
him  respecting  women  who  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be 
offended!  —  Never  fear,  charming  Maia,  I'll  have  nothing  to  do 
with  his  aged  inexperience,  and  if  I  please  you  half  as  much  as 
you  please  me,  we'll  not  have  to  trouble  the  mayor  ^  or  his 
assistants! 

MARIE.  [^Enters,  laughing.  She  carries  a  has\et  filled  with 
flowers.  To  BLANCHE,  who  enters  at  the  same  timf\  What  a 
lovely  suitor  for  you! 

BLANCHE.  And  he  has  red  hair  —  but  it's  begun  to  fall 
out. 

LEOPOLD.  [Going  toward  theni]  Who  the  devil  are  you 
talking  about? 

BLANCHE.      Were  you  there? 

MARIE.  We  were  speaking  of  the  young  Baron  Anatole 
Rastiboulois. 

LEOPOLD.      What  were  you  saying? 

BLANCHE.  Mamma  expects  a  visit  from  his  father,  M.  le 
prefet  de  Seine-et-Manche. 

LEOPOLD.      And  what  can  that  potentate  want  with  her? 

BLANCHE.      Ah,  now,  ask  Maia,  I'm  too  excited. 

LEOPOLD.      [To  marie]      Tell  me,  Maia. 

MARIE.  He  is  coming  to  ask  for  the  hand  of  Blanche,  for 
his  son. 

LEOPOLD.      He  will  be  cordially  welcomed! 

BLANCHE.      Of  course!      Mamma  will  be  delighted! 

LEOPOLD.      But  from  what  I  have  just  heard,  you 

^  Who  officiates  at  marriage  ceremonies  in  France. 


152  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

BLANCHE.  I  too.  I  consider  M.  Anatole  quite  adequate 
(or  a  husband. 

MARIE.      What,  would  you  marry  him? 

BLANCHE.      Why  not? 

LEOPOLD.      She  puzzles  me,  that  girl. 

BLANCHE.  Isn't  one  husband  much  like  another?  Like 
the  wines  in  a  restaurant,  the  only  difference  is  in  the 
label. 

LEOPOLD.      I  had  an  idea  you  had  yourself  decided  on  some 


one 

BLANCHE.      Nonsense! 

LEOPOLD.      I  rather  thought  that  Victor  Chauvet 

BLANCHE.      Are  you  interested  in  him? 

LEOPOLD.      Not  the  least  bit. 

BLANCHE.  Neither  am  I.  He  is  in  Calcutta  —  he  may 
remain  there,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  To-day  is  Saint 
Lambert's  day 

LEOPOLD.  Well,  if  he  had  no  more  claim  on  your  affection 
than  that 

BLANCHE.  That's  nonsense  —  out  of  a  boarding-school 
girl's  novel 

LEOPOLD.      It's  good  sense,  little  sister. 

MARIE.      Too  good. 

LEOPOLD.      Think  so? 

THE  SERVANT.      [^Announcing]      M.  Bernard. 

LEOPOLD.      My  pet  aversion  —  I'm  off !     [He  goes  out,  left] 

BERNARD.      [Entering  at  the  baclQ      How  are  you,  ladies? 

MARIE.      How  d'ye  do? 

BLANCHE.      How  are  you,  M.  Bernard? 

MARIE  arranges  her  flowers  in  a  Vase,  on  the  table  to  the  right. 

BERNARD.  Is  Mme.  Fourchambault  to  be  seen?  I  have 
come  to  report  on  an  errand  she  asked  me  to  do  for  her. 

BLANCHE.      Oh  yes,  the  yacht  —  Have  you  been  over  it? 

BERNARD.  The  ship's  in  good  condition.  It  cost  originally 
40.000  francs.    Sir  John  Sunter  is  willing  to  sell  it  for  20,000  — 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  153 

it's  a  good  bargain;  I  have  only  to  obtain  Mme.  Fourchambault's 
authorisation  to  close  the  bargain. 

BLANCHE.  What  great  fun  it  will  be  to  promenade  on  it! 
Mamma  is  dressing:  I  doubt  whether  she  can  see  you  at  once, 
but  I'll  tell  her  you  are  here,     \^She  goes  out,  lefQ 

MARIE.  [^Seated  near  the  table  to  the  right,  taking  BERNARD'S 
hands  in  her  own^  How  are  you,  dear  friend?  Why  did  I 
call  you  "dear  friend"?  I  have  known  you  for  only  three 
months;  but  you  were  so  good  to  me  while  we  were  crossing,  so 
like  a  father  —  no,  not  so  old  as  that!  —  like  a  brother 

BERNARD.      Not  so  old! 

MARIE.      Neither  father  nor  brother?      What,  then? 

BERNARD.      You  have  already  said  it:  friend,  old  friend. 

MARIE.  That  is  not  enough.  Do  you  want  me  to  call  you 
uncle? 

BERNARD.      I  should  be  very  glad. 

MARIE.  Good.  Well,  Uncle,  sit  down  there.  []//e  sits 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table^  How  is  your  mother?  I 
haven't  seen  her  for  two  weeks. 

BERNARD.      She  complains  of  the  fact. 

MARIE.  It's  not  my  fault.  Since  we've  moved  to  Ingou- 
ville,  I've  not  set  foot  in  Le  Havre. 

BERNARD.  You  are  enjoying  yourself  with  the  Fourcham- 
baults. 

MARIE.  Very  much:  they  are  very  kind,  and  they  are  spoil- 
ing me  as  fast  as  they  know  how.      I'm  in  love  with  the  girl. 

BERNARD.      There  is  also  a  young  man. 

MARIE.      Leopold?      Very  nice  sort  of  fellow  —  charming. 

BERNARD.      Charming!      He  makes  love  to  you,  doesn't  he? 

MARIE.  If  he  didn't,  he  wouldn't  be  doing  his  duty  as  host. 
Does  it  ever  happen  in  France  that  a  young  girl  is  not  made  love 
to?  ^She  rises  and  goes  to  the  wor\-bas\el,  getting  a  hall  of  worsted 
from  which  she  ta^es  a  strand  to  tie  her  bouquet^ 

BERNARD.      Married  women  are  preferred. 

MARIE.  It's  more  moral.  What  a  funny  country!  Well, 
I'm  only  the  more  obliged  to  Leopold  for  wasting  his  time  on  me. 


154  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

BERNARD.  Take  care!  It  is  said  that  his  time  is  not 
wasted. 

MARIE.      l^Turning  round  quic}(ly~]      Who  says  that? 

BERNARD.      That's  the  story  that's  going  about  town. 

MARIE.      \_Crossing^      Let  the  town  mind  its  own  affairs ! 

BERNARD.  It's  always  meddling  in  what  doesn't  con- 
cern it. 

MARIE.  You  can  tell  the  gossips  to  mind  their  own  business, 
as  I  mind  my  own.  It's  my  pleasure  to  have  Leopold  make  love 
to  me,  and  I  cannot  permit  anyone  to  see  anything  wrong  in  his 
doing  so. 

BERNARD.      Little  heed  they'll  take  of  what  you  permit. 

MARIE.      Then  what  will  be  the  harm? 

BERNARD.     I  ought  to  warn  you  that  he  will  not  marry  you. 

MARIE.  Come,  come.  Uncle,  you  have  a  high  opinion  of 
me!      Do  you  think  I'm  looking  for  a  husband? 

BERNARD.  If  you  are  not  looking  for  a  husband,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  what  are  you  looking  for? 

MARIE.  I  want  to  —  [Laughing^  merely  to  enjoy  a  little 
warfare  between  the  two  of  us.  Leave  me  to  my  own  devices, 
and  don't  be  a  kill-joy. 

BERNARD.  Take  my  advice,  my  child,  don't  play  with  fire: 
you  always  get  scorched. 

MARIE.      Haven't  you  confidence  in  me? 

BERNARD.  I  have  confidence  in  your  virtue,  but  I  doubt 
your  prudence;  it  seems  to  me  you  are  rather  too  free  in  your 
ways  here. 

MARIE.  What  more  natural?  It's  my  last  breath  of  free- 
dom.     Just  think,  I  leave  here  only  to  go  into  a  sort  of  slavery. 

BERNARD.  What  you  call  slavery,  my  child,  is  the  most 
serious  and  dignified  of  life's  positions. 

MARIE.      You  are  right. 

BERNARD.      You  are  in  a  false  position  here. 

MARIE.      Find  me  another  place. 

BERNARD.      Will  you  let  me? 

MARIE.      [Jjiting  him  her  handj      Please! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  155 

Enter  BLANCHE. 

BLANCHE.  Mamma  asks  you  to  excuse  her;  she  is  not  ready 
to  see  you  yet.  She  must  consult  with  Papa  before  closing  the 
bargain. 

BERNARD.      Hasn't  he  been  consulted  yet? 

BLANCHE.  He  will  be  in  an  hour's  time;  Mamma  will 
write  you. 

BERNARD.  I  shall  wait;  there  is  no  harm  in  that.  Good- 
bye, ladies!  {^To  MARIE]]  You  will  hear  from  me  in  a  few 
days.      \^He  goes  out] 

BLANCHE.      What  does  he  mean  by  "hearing  from  him"? 

MARIE.  He  was  good  enough  to  offer  to  find  me  a 
position. 

BLANCHE.      Do  you  want  to  leave  us? 

MARIE.  I  don't  want  to,  my  dear  Blanchette,  but  I  can't 
stay  here  until  the  end  of  time;  I  have  already  imposed  on  your 
kindness. 

BLANCHE.  We  are  the  ones  who  are  imposing  on  you,  and 
most  selfishly.  If  we  weren't  so  proud,  we  should  acknowledge 
that  we  were  in  your  debt. 

MARIE.      How  do  you  make  that  out? 

BLANCHE.  You  are  so  thrillingly  alive!  You  breathe 
vitality  into  everyone  you  associate  with.  You  have  taught  me 
more  in  two  months  than  my  teachers  have  in  ten  years:  I  have 
learned  to  take  an  interest  in  things.  I  was  merely  a  doll  before 
I  knew  you;  I  feel  that  in  your  presence  I  am  becoming  a  young 
woman,  too  —  I  love  you  like  a  sister. '^ 

MARIE.      \^Kissing  her^      I  too  love  you,  like  a  sister. 

BLANCHE.  How  sweet  that  word  is  —  in  French  as  well  as 
in  English!  I  have  always  wanted  to  have  a  sister  —  like  you! 
—  What  a  beautiful  sister  I  should  have,  and  what  a  daughter 
you  would  be  for  Mamma! 

MARIE.  I  have  an  idea  that  this  beauty  would  hardly  be 
to  her  taste! 

*  The  last  six  words  are,  in  the  text,  English. 


156  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Speaking  to  someone  off-stage'} 
It's  an  outrage! 

BLANCHE.      I  hear  her. 

MARIE.      A  storm! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      [^Outside']      But,  my  dear 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Very  well,  let's  not  say  another 
word ! 

BLANCHE.      Let's  run  for  our  lives! 

MARIE.      Let  us  not  bother  them!     \^They  go  out,  hacl^ 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  ^Entering  left}  Why  are  you 
following  me? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I'm  not,  I'm  merely  accompanying 
you. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  near 
me;  leave  me!  —  When  my  poor  mother  gave  me  to  you  together 
with  800,000  francs,  she  never  dreamed  she  was  condemning  me 
to  a  life  of  privation! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  A  life  of  privation?  Because  I  refuse 
you  a  yacht? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  thought  that  my  dowry  might 
allow  me  a  few  simple  luxuries  —  I  see  I'm  mistaken, 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Simple  luxury?  Twenty  thousand 
francs! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Do  you  have  to  pay  for  it? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  That  sort  of  reasoning  would  bankrupt 
me! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Now  I'm  ruining  the  dear  man! 
His  whole  fortune  comes  from  me. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Don't  excite  yourself,  my  dear;  I  speak 
quietly,  but  you  must  understand  the  situation. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      What  situation? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  ought  to  be  rich  —  but  thanks  to  the 
way  you  manage  things,  and  run  up  expenses  "out  of  your 
dowry,"  as  you  say,  I  manage  to  live  only  from  day  to  day.  If 
a  financial  crisis  occurred  to-morrow  in  Le  Havre,  I  shouldn't 
have  one  sou  to  rub  against  another. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  157 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  That's  not  truel  If  it  is,  your 
fate  is  sealed. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Mine,  or  yours? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Mine,  the  idea!  Is  it  my  fault 
if  you  don't  understand  business?  If  you  never  knew  how  to 
profit  by  our  position  and  acquaintances?  Anyone  else,  in 
your  place 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Very  possibly,  but  I  have  been  foolish 
enough  to  wish  to  remain  an  honest  man. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Yes,  every  fool  who  hasn't  been 
able  to  make  a  success  has  said  the  same  thing.  And  I  tell  you. 
Monsieur,  when  a  man  is  afraid  to  make  a  career  for  himself,  he 
ought  never  to  be  the  head  of  a  bank.  He  ought  to  resign  in 
favour  of  his  son. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  keep  harping  on  that!  Haven't 
I  already  told  you  that  you  might  just  as  well  bury  me  alive! 
I  am  already  a  nonentity  in  my  family. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  choose  your  time  for  appear- 
ing in  the  light  of  a  victim,  now  that  you  have  just  refused  me  a 
little  favour. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  refuse  nothing;  I  am  merely  laying 
the  matter  before  you.  Now  do  what  you  like,  I  can  say  no 
more. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Good!  But,  really,  you've  been 
very  hard  on  me,  Adrien,  and  at  the  very  moment  I  was  prepar- 
ing to  surprise  you 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Surprise?  Well,  what  is  it?  [^Aside] 
I'm  afraid 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  The  House  of  Fourchambault 
has  just  gained  a  signal  victory  over  the  House  of  Duhamel. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      To  wit 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Madame  Duhamel  has  for  many 
years  been  trying  to  marry  her  daughter  to  the  Prefect's  son 

FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  know  that.      Well? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  While  the  good  lady  was  publish- 
ing her  intentions  abroad  I  was  quietly  working  away,  and  now 


158  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

Baron  Rastiboulois  is  coming  here  to  ask  you  for  your  daughter's 
hand. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Oh,  no!       I  have  someone  else  in  view. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  have?  I  should  be  most 
happy  to  know ? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  A  splendid  lad  —  one  of  our  sort — 
who  loves  Blanche,  and  is  loved  by  her  —  or  I  am  very  much 
mistaken. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Well,  you  are  very  much  mis- 
taken —  absolutely.  Do  you  refer  to  M.  Victor  Chauvet? 
M.  Bernard's  clerk? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      His  right  hand,  his  alter  ego. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Blanche  merely  thought  she  had 
a  f amcy  for  him  —  it  was  a  morning  mist,  which  I  had  only  to 
blow  upon  to  drive  away.  She  thinks  nothing  more  of  the 
matter,  and  I  advise  you  to  do  likewise. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  What  have  you  against  the  young 
man?  4 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Nothing  whatsoever!  Only  his 
name  is  so  ridiculous  —  Chauvet  ^ ! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      He's  as  curly-haired  as  a  sheep! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  As  you  like,  only  I  should 
never  have  consented  to  be  called  Madame  Chauvet,  and  my 
daughter  takes  after  her  mother.  But  that's  a  detail;  the  long 
and  short  of  the  matter  is  that  I  refuse  to  allow  my  daughter  to 
marry  a  clerk. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  refuse?  I  You  refuse!  There  are 
two  of  us  to  take  into  account. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Are  you  giving  Blanche  a  dowry? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  ?  —  No. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Then  you  see  very  clearly  that 
there  are  not  two  of  us  to  take  into  account.  As  I  am  giving 
her  her  dowry,  I  have  the  right  to  choose  my  son-in-law. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  And  I  have  the  right  to  refuse;  I  tell 
you  I  won't  have  your  little  Baron  at  any  price. 

^  An  untranslatable  pun  on  the  word  "chauve";  jjald. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  159 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  What  have  you  against  him, 
besides  his  title? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  He's  a  man-about-town,  a  gambler,  a 
roue,  old  for  his  years. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      He  pleases  Blanche  just  as  he  is. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Lord!      He's  no  beauty. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  What  does  that  matter? 
Haven't  I  been  the  happiest  of  wives? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  What's  that?  For  the  last  time,  I 
refuse.  Blanche  may  not  marry  Chauvet  —  that's  possible! 
—  but  she  shan't  marry  Rastiboulois,  that's  certain! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      But,  Monsieur 

FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  have  spoken  —  [//e  goes  ouQ 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Alone]  Our  lords  and  masters! 
These  are  the  creatures  who  make  the  laws!  We  unfortunate 
women!  We  wear  out  our  lives  trying  to  better  our  families, 
and  then  a  hare-brained  despot  spoils  everything  for  a  whim! 

A  SERVANT.      [^Announcing^     M.  le  baron  Rastiboulois. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  l^Aside]  What  can  I  say  to 
him? 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [^5  he  enters]  Pardon  me,  dear  lady,  for 
taking  the  liberty  of  coming  without  preparing  you.  I  have  so 
little  spare  time 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Motioning  him  to  a  chair}  You 
need  make  no  apologies.  Baron. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [_Sitting2  No  "Baron"  here,  please:  merely 
a  father,  and  it  is  as  such  that  I  have  presumed  to  ask  for  this 
interview,  of  which  my  age  would  otherwise  render  me  unworthy, 
I  regret  

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      \^Aside]    How  friendly  he  is! 

RASTIBOULOIS.  You  are  acquainted  with  the  object  of  my 
visit,  as  my  wife  and  you  are  at  one  in  all  particulars.  It 
is  therefore  a  pure  formality  that  I  am  fulfilling 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  First  of  all,  M.  le  baron,  I  ought 
to  let  you  know  that  I  have  not  yet  taken  my  husband  into  my 
confidence. 


160  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Good  Lord!  Could  I  have  possibly  been 
too  precipitous  in  breaking  with  the  Duhamels? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      \^Aside]     Oh! 

RASTIBOULOIS.      Of  course,  you  understand 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  lAside]  Understand!  [^Reso- 
luiely~\     I  really  must  have  my  husband's  consent. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Good.  Well,  Madame,  prepare  your  lord 
and  master  for  the  proposal  which  I  shall  have  the  honour  to 
make  him  to-morrow;  and,  in  order  to  settle  the  affair  between 
you  and  me,  though  I  dislike  mentioning  money-matters  with 
a  pretty  woman 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Oh,  Baron! 

RASTIBOULOIS.  With  a  pretty  woman  —  I  repeat  it. 
Although  people  of  our  station  in  life  are  above  these  sordid 
details,  I  must,  as  a  matter  of  course,  ask  you  a  few  questions. 
I  am  giving  my  son  150,000  francs  on  his  wedding-day,  and 
he  will  inherit  an  equal  amount  from  his  mother  and  me.  — 
There! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      And  I  for  my  part 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Not  another  word,  if  you  please!  If  your 
daughter  brought  nothing  but  herself,  we  should  sign  the  con- 
tract with  our  eyes  closed. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      You  are  a  true  gentleman. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  So  it  is  said.  One  word:  This  300,000 
francs'  dowry  is  from  your  private  fortune? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  My  husband  does  not  want  to 
put  his  tools,  his  working  capital,  into  property. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  His  tools?  His  weapons,  his  armament, 
for  a  large  commercial  enterprise,  like  your  husband's,  is  a  form 
of  nobility  in  itself,  and  the  House  of  Fourchambault  may  well 
form  an  alliance  on  a  basis  of  perfect  equality  with  the  House 
of  Rastiboulois.  Its  money  is  as  good  as  ours,  and  a  fortune  the 
size  of  your  husband's  which  amounts  to  —  how  much? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  haven't  the  slightest  notion. 

RASITIBOULOIS.  Believe  me,  I  have  no  curiosity  in  the 
matter.      It  was  merely  —  er  —  to  round  out  the  sentence  which 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  161 

led  me  to  appear  to  ask  the  question.  I  have  a  mortal  terror  of 
what  are  basely  called  —  expectations.  I  have  only  one, 
Madame:   merely  that  you  outhve  us. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  That  rests  with  Heaven!  Yet, 
my  health  is  anything  but  good,  in  spite  of  appearances  which 
are 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Admirable,  Madame,  admirable.  Will 
your  son  inherit  the  bank? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  His  sister  of  course  will  not  be 
forgotten 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Not  another  word!  I  am  rather  mala- 
droit with  my  questions;  they  sound  as  if  I  were  making  an 
inventory,  and  God  knows  I  — !  I  mean,  your  son  is  a  fine 
fellow  whom  any  girl  would  be  lucky  to  catch.  Have  you  any 
intention  of  seeing  him  settled  in  life? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Not  yet,  the  dear  boy! 

RASTIBOULOIS.      He  has  still  a  few  wild  oats  to  sow. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      He's  "  finding  himself ." 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [^Smiling]  Yes,  so  they  say  —  very  much. 
I  MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      \^Aside]     Can  they  suspect ? 

RASTIBOULOIS.  I  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  him! 
I  speak,  you  see,  as  a  member  of  the  family,  and  yet  I  have  not 
heard  from  its  head. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  will  this  evening;  he  himself 
will  come  to  you,  with  his  consent.  Don't  trouble  yourself, 
your  time  is  precious. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [^Looking  at  his  watch']  So  precious  that 
I  must  put  an  end  to  this  charming  conversation.  Present  my 
compliments  to  M.  Fourchambault,  and  accept  for  yourself  my 
kindest  regards.      [^He  l(_isses  her  hand] 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Until  this  evening,  my  dear 
Baron.      \^He  goes  out] 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^/one]  What  charming  man- 
ners! —  He  might  be  dangerous  if  he  were  ten  years  younger 

Enter  FOURCHAMBAULT. 


162  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      He's  gone.      How  did  things  go? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Very  nicely.  I  told  him  that 
for  my  part  I  was  most  honoured  by  his  offer,  but  that  I  must 
refer  the  matter  to  the  head  of  the  family,  and  that  you  would 
give  him  your  answer  in  person.  You  have  only  to  go  to  the 
Prefecture  to-night. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  What?  Must  I  go  to-night  — ?  You 
should  have  told  him  flatly  and  at  once!  It's  very  embarrassing 
to  say  a  thing  like  that  to  his  face. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      That  is  why  I  didn't  tell  him. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I'm  going  to  make  a  mortal  enemy  of 
that  man. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Mortal  —  we  are  all  mortal. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      This  is  a  nice  time  for  joking! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      After  all,  no  one  is  forcing  you. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  But  can't  you  see  that  in  my  position, 
everything  depends  on  my  relations  with  everybody!  My 
God,  couldn't  you  have  managed  the  refusal  yourself?^  —  so 
that  the  Baron  will  go  at  once  to  the  Duhamels  and  give  to  the 
rival  house  the  honour  of  an  alliance  with  his  own. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      That  is  not  pleasant. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Accommodate  yourself  to  cir- 
cumstances.     You  still  have  time  to  change  your  mind.  ' 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  That  is  not  the  question.  A  little 
fool  of  a  gambler! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Like  Leopold! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  don't  think  I'd  give  my  daughter  to 
Leopold! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Very  well;  accept  or  refuse  — 
it's  your  affair. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      You've  put  me  in  a  lovely  situation! 

^  Original:  " Fourchambaalt.  Ne  pouvais-tu  pas  prendre  la  rupture  sous 
ton  bonnet? 

Madame  FourchamhauU.  Les  bonnets  ne  sont  pas  encore  de  mon  age.  Je 
me  coiffe  en  cheveux." 

The  pun  is  untranslatable. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  163 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  have  until  to-night  to  decide; 
I  leave  you  absolutely  free  to  choose.  Only  you  would  be  doing 
me  a  great  favour,  as  you're  going  to  the  Prefecture,  to  see  M. 
Bernard. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      What  for? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  To  tell  him  not  to  trouble  about 
the  yacht. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      What?      You  don't  want ? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Yes,  I've  thought  it  over. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Oh,  you  can  be  charming  when  you 
want  to  be! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  am  merely  reasonable. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  see  that,  I  see  that! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  am  more  reasonable  than  you, 
because  I  give  up  something  absurd,  while  you  were  foolish 
enough  to  offer  to  let  me  have  it. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  That's  true!  More  reasonable  than 
I !  —  Advise  me  now  about  this  cursed  affair. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  advise  you  to  consult  Blanche. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Why,  I  never  thought  of  that!  Per- 
fect! She's  the  one  who's  principally  interested,  after  all:  I'll 
see  what  she  has  to  say.  —  Will  you  accept  her  decision? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Of  course,  since  I  accepted  yours 


FOURCHAMBAULT.  You're  an  angel.  —  Let's  find  Blanche. 
[MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT  offers  him  her  arm;  both  go  toward  the 
left^    After  all,  if  you  really  would  like  the  yacht 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  No.  —  Give  it  to  Blanche  for  a 
wedding  present.      [FOURCHAMBAULT  laughs.'] 

CURTAIN 


164  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 


ACT  II 

SCENE:  —  A  room  in  BERNARD'S  home,  simply,  severely  fur- 
nished. —  Entrances  at  the  bacl^  and  to  the  left.  At  the  right, 
a  fireplace;  before  it,  a  square  table  at  one  side  of  which  is  an 
armchair  and  the  other  an  ordinary  chair.  Down-stage  to 
the  left,  a  sofa,  and  a  chair  beside  it.  MME.  BERNARD  is 
alone,  examining  a  large  boo\  which  lies  on  the  table.  Enter 
BERNARD  a  moment  later. 

BERNARD.  \_Goes  to  the  chair  where  his  mother  is  seated  and 
leans  over  the  bool[\  What  a  splendid  book-keeper  you  are, 
Mother  dear!  Always  at  your  accounts!  [^She  raises  her  head 
and  kisses  him  on  the  forehead^ 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Smiling^  You  would  be  very  surprised, 
wouldn't  you,  if  you  were  to  find  some  fine  morning,  that  I  had 
left  for  Belgium? 

BERNARD.  Dumbfounded!  You  are  not  only  the  soul 
of  order  and  economy  in  this  house,  but  the  spirit  of  prudence,  of 
enterprise  —  you  are  its  inspiration!  You're  not  content  with 
having  made  my  fortune  —  and  you  have!  Without  you,  I 
should  never  have  had  the  instinct,  the  power  of  belief,  to  have 
confidence  in  the  duration  of  the  Civil  War 

MME.  BERNARD.      Of  course!      But  as  to  not  being  content 

BERNARD.  —  With  administering  this  fortune  the  way 
Colbert  would 

MME.  BERNARD.  What  have  I  done,  for  that  matter?  — 
Stop  your  nonsense,  now!      I  see  you  have  some  news 

BERNARD.  Big  news!  Cartier  suspended  payment  this 
morning,  and  the  Cartier  brothers  have  absconded. 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  always  said  they'd  come  to  no  good 
end.      They  were  daredevils! 

BERNARD.      They've  gone  off  with  the  cash-box. 

MME.  BERNARD.  I'm  not  surprised.  Daredevils,  swind- 
lers! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  165 

BERNARD.  There's  a  general  panic  in  town.  Everyone 
had  such  confidence  in  them;  I  am  about  the  only  one  who  isn't 
touched  by  the  catastrophe,  —  thanks  to  whom?  To  you,  my 
Providence!      You  may  well  be  proud  of  your  far-sightedness. 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  made  a  man  of  myself  the  day  I  became 
your  father.  The  inferiority  of  women  is  only  the  result  of 
their  being  guarded.  We  develop  only  those  powers  we  have 
need  of.  I  needed  all  my  powers,  in  order  to  do  my  duty:  to 
keep  you  alive,  educate  you.  My  redemption  in  the  eyes  of 
God  was  to  make  an  honest  man  of  you,  and  in  my  own  eyes  to 
make  you  one  of  the  happiest  men  in  that  world  which  cast  me 
off.  All  the  subtle  will-power  of  the  inner-being  that  other 
women  possess,  I  applied  to  the  struggle  for  existence.  I  have 
succeeded  beyond  all  my  hopes. 

BERNARD.  Dearest  Mother!  You  have  been  father  and 
mother  to  me.  What's  this  talk  about  redemption?  The  calm 
surface  of  your  life  was  stirred  just  once,  only  to  lapse  again  into 
perfect  quiet  —  my  childhood  was  the  proof,  and  what  a  proof 
childhood  is!  Come,  I'm  not  envious  of  other  sons  who  have 
to  divide  their  affections  among  many;  I  shouldn't  know  how 
to  do  that.  You  see,  I  don't  even  wish  to  know  the  name  of  the 
man  who  refused  to  share  me  with  you. 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  shall  tell  you  his  name  when  you  have 
forgiven  him  as  I  have. 

BERNARD.      As  you  have  — !      Dear  Lord! 

MME.  BERNARD.  On  that  day,  when  you  come  to  me  frankly 
and  ask  me  his  name,  I  shall  tell  you. 

BERNARD.  [^Seriously^  That  day  has  not  yet  come. 
\^With  a  change  of  coice]  When  I  came  in,  I'll  wager  you  were 
at  your  continual  occupation  —  your  monomania  —  making  out 
an  inventory? 

MME.  BERNARD.  Exactly.  Do  you  know  what  your 
fortune  amounts  to  to-day?  Two  millions  —  less  three 
francs. 

BERNARD.  [^Searching  in  his  pockcQ  Here  are  the  three 
francs  —  let's  have  a  round  sum. 


166  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

MME.  BERNARD,  To  whom  will  all  this  money  eventually 
go? 

BERNARD.  [^Seated  by  the  fireplace]  Oh,  I'll  will  enough 
to  start  a  foundlings'  hospital. 

MME.  BERNARD.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  have  children  of 
your  own? 

BERNARD.  ]^GaiIy,  as  he  ta\es  a  seat  facing  his  molher~\ 
Marry?      Are  you  still  thinking  about  that? 

MME.  BERNARD.  It  would  be  a  great  consolation  to  have 
legitimate  grandchildren! 

BERNARD.  Really,  Mother,  why  go  to  all  this  trouble  to 
conceal  from  me  that  I  was  not  born  in  wedlock?  What  was 
the  use  in  leaving  your  country  and  changing  your  name? 
Why  do  you  live  secluded  and  alone  —  if  after  all,  some  day, 
you  will  be  forced  to  give  evidence,  at  the  mayor's  and  before 
witnesses,  of  my  irregular  birth?  I  thought  we  were  agreed 
on  that  point. 

MME.  BERNARD.  We  are,  my  son  —  but  an  idea  has  just  oc- 
curred to  me  that  will  settle  everything:  under  your  real  name, 
we  might  rent  a  country  house  far  away  from  here  where  I  could 
live  for  six  months,  and  where  you  could  visit  me  from  time  to 
time.  Six  months  is  sufficient  time  to  establish  a  domicile  — 
I've  enquired.  You  will  get  married  there,  and  when  you 
return  to  Le  Havre  with  your  wife,  no  one  will  ask  to  see  your 
marriage  license. 

BERNARD.  \_Rising\  And  do  you  think  we  can  find  a 
family  willing  to  enter  into  a  scheme  like  that? 

MME.  BERNARD.      You  can  marry  an  orphan. 

BERNARD.     We  should  have  to  take  her  into  our  confidence. 

MME.  BERNARD.  You  may  be  sure  she  would  keep  the 
secret. 

BERNARD.  [Near  his  mother']  But  I  should  want  to  keep 
her  more  than  anyone  else  from  knowing.  —  Let's  change  the 
subject, 

MME.  BERNARD.  Ah,  my  son,  how  you  blush  for  the  blot 
I  have  stamped  upon  you! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  167 

BERNARD.  I?  Little  I  care!  [^He  kisses  his  mother]  All 
the  more  glory  in  store  for  me!  If  I  were  the  only  one  concerned, 
I  should  cry  it  from  the  house-tops,  that  I  owe  everything  in  the 
world  to  your  courage  and  my  own.  But  my  father's  crime  — 
which  your  mother-love  has  succeeded  in  hiding  —  I  want  to 
bury  forever;  that  is  purely  a  matter  of  filial  respect.  But 
you,  I  don't  simply  adore  you  —  you're  a  religion  to  me! — And  I 
tell  you,  if  my  wife  didn't  share  my  feelings  —  though  I'm  rather 
sensitive  and  timid  —  I  think  I  should  strangle  her.  Now  do 
you  understand  why  I  have  no  desire  to  marry?  \^He  sits  on 
the  sofa] 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Standing  near  him]  I  understand, 
and  I  thank  you.  But  don't  you  think  there  is  some  woman 
somewhere  in  the  world  who  is  broad-spirited  enough  to  overlook, 
to  pardon  me  my  unhappy  existence? 

BERNARD.  Yes:  a  woman  who  has  sufiFered  enough  to 
understand. 

MME.  BERNARD.      Marie  Letellier,  for  instance? 

BERNARD.  Marie?  Her  only  misfortunes  have  been  finan- 
cial; she  would  not  understand  any  better  than  anyone  else. 

MME.  BERNARD.  Who  knows?  Will  you  let  me  try  to 
find  out? 

BERNARD.  [^Rising]  Never!  What  would  be  the  good? 
Would  she  take  me?  Just  look  at  me!  I've  never  been  hand- 
some, and  my  adventurous  life  has  not  exactly  improved  my 
appearance.       I'm  fifteen  years  older  than  she,  and  I  look  more. 

MME.  BERNARD.  What  difference  can  that  make?  She 
knows  all  your  good  qualities;  she's  seen  you  at  work.  I  am 
positive  she  would  be  proud  to  be  your  wife. 

BERNARD.  [^iVith  a  forced  laugh]  My  niece,  rather!  She 
calls  me  Uncle  —  there's  the  whole  story.  Don't  deceive  your- 
self. Mother  dear;  if  Marie  has  leanings  toward  anyone,  they're 
not  toward  sonny.  At  the  Fourchambaults'  there  is  a  young 
man  who  is  making  love  to  her,  and  she  considers  him  charming. 

MME.  BERNARD.-     What  makes  you  think  that? 

BERNARD.      She  herself  recognises  her  precarious  position. 


168  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

and  asks  me  to  get  her  out  of  the  danger  zone  as  soon  as  possible. 
For  some  days  past  I've  been  trying  to  find  her  a  place  as  a 
French  governess  in  an  EngHsh  family  I  know. 

MME.  BERNARD.     Would  Marie  have  to  leave  the  country? 

BERNARD.  \^With  an  efforQ  Yes.  But  I  should  prefer 
seeing  her  do  that  than  stay  where  she  is  now.  That  little 
Leopold  is  a  sharp  rascal  —  he  wouldn't  stop  short  of  anything. 

MME.  BERNARD.      But  Marie  is  perfectly  honourable. 

BERNARD.  [^Becoming  more  and  more  excited^  I  shall  not 
insult  her  by  doubting  it;  but  we  know  to  our  sorrow  how  small 
a  thing  a  promise  of  marriage  is  with  people  of  that  sort,  and  how 
little  they  regard  it  as  a  debt  of  honour.  Oh,  race  of  thieves, 
more  damnably  accurst  than  highway  robbers  —  shall  I  ever 
get  the  chance  to  annihilate  one  of  them? 

MME.  BERNARD.  You  frighten  me  —  your  eyes!  —  You're 
letting  hatred  get  the  better  of  you!  —  Against  whom  is  it? 

BERNARD.      Do  you  ask? 

MME.  BERNARD.      I've  never  seen  you  like  this,  —  never! 

BERNARD.  l^Angrily2  Because  I've  always  controlled  my 
feelings  out  of  regard  for  you!  But  the  danger  hovering  over 
that  poor  girl  has  aweJcened  all  the  bitterness  of  my  heart 
against  him — I  hate  him,  although  I  don't  even  know  him! 

MME.  BERNARD.  Bernard!  You  forget  —  he  is  your 
father! 

BERNARD.      He  has  forgotten  that  /  am  his  son. 

MME.  BERNARD.     What  if  he  never  believed  that? 

BERNARD.      [^Astonished]      Never  believed  it? 

MME.  BERNARD.  [Falling  upon  the  sofa]  Those  words 
have  come  to  my  lips  a  hundred  times  and  like  a  coward  I  have 
kept  them  back.  That  is  the  saddest  part  of  my  unhappy  past. 
You  have  awakened  so  much  in  my  conscience,  that  it  cried  out 
in  spite  of  myself. 

BERNARD.      Your  conscience? 

MME.  BERNARD.  Your  father  was  an  honest  man,  a  good 
man  —  I  have  no  right  to  make  you  despise  him;  and  no  matter 
how  insufficient  this  explanation  is 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  169 

BERNARD.  {^Quickly}  I  don't  want  to  hear  it,  it's 
useless:   I  don't  know  the  man,  and  I  don't  want  to  know  him. 

MME.  BERNARD.      He  was  not  the  guilty  one. 

BERNARD.      [^Excitedly]      Who  was.  then? 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  —  and  his  father!  I,  who  supplied  the 
grounds  for  an  awful  suspicion;  his  father,  who  took  a  mean 
advantage  of  me  when  I  was  away.  —  I  went  to  Paris,  to  hide 
myself;  there  I  received  a  letter,  a  short  brutal  letter,  telling  me 
that  everything  was  broken  off.  He  told  me,  without  further 
explanation,  that  this  father  had  opened  his  eyes  for  him. 

BERNARD.      But  you  went  at  once  to  accuse  your  seducer? 

MME.  BERNARD.      \^AverUng  her  eyes]      No. 

BERNARD.      No? 

MME.  BERNARD.  Forgive  me!  I  thought  only  of  my 
pride  —  I  wasn't  a  mother  yet!  And  when  you  came  into  the 
world,  I  understood  that  I  ought  to  have  defended  myself,  for 
your  sake  —  but  it  was  too  late;  I  had  proclaimed  myself  guilty 
by  remaining  silent. 

BERNARD.  You  were  wise  not  to  say  anything.  It  was 
not  your  place  to  explain,  it  was  his  duty.  —  But  don't  call  him 
a  good  man;  a  good  man  would  never  condemn  a  victim  unheard 
—  he  never  accepts  a  slander  without  certain  proof. 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Turning  aside  her  head]  Is  it  not  the 
first  punishment  of  a  fallen  woman  to  be  suspected  by  the  very 
man  who  caused  her  ruin?     Every  appearance  is  against  her 

BERNARD.  Appearances  were  of  no  importance;  aren't 
you  proof  to  the  contrary.  Mother?  You  have  only  to  look! 
You've  told  me  everything  you  have  to  say,  haven't  you?  Now, 
not  another  word!  l^jesiure  from  MME.  BERNARD]]  Please! 
It's  as  hard  for  me  as  for  you!      [^He  goes  to  the  door  at  the  bacl[\ 

MME.  BERNARD.      Are  you  going? 

BERNARD.  I'm  looking  out  for  the  ship  Chauvet  is  on. 
I'm  going  to  the  pier.      \^He  goes  out] 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Alone]  Does  he  blame  me  for  defend- 
ing his  father?  Oh,  he'll  never  forgive  him!  I  shan't  mention 
him  again! 


170  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

Enter  an  old  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  ^In  an  evening  suit]  There  are  two  ladies 
here  who  are  very  anxious  to  see  you.  They're  collecting  for 
something. 

MME.  BERNARD.      Ask  them  to  come  in. 

Enter  MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT  and  BLANCHE.  Each  carries 
a  purse  used  for  cash  contributions  which  they  are  soliciting. 
MME.  BERNARD  motions  them  to  sit  down  on  the  sofa;  the 
guests  sit  down.  MME.  BERNARD  then  sits  on  a  chair  to  one 
side. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Pardon  our  boldness,  Madame. 
During  the  past  month,  it  has  been  my  privilege  to  be  patroness 
of  St.  Joseph's  Orphan  Asylum,  and  one  of  my  duties  is  to  open  a 
door  which  I  know  is  always  closed  except  to  charity. 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  have  already  made  a  donation  to  the 
asylum  which  you  are  helping  to  support,  but  it  shall  never  be 
said  that  you  came  from  here  empty-handed. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  expected  no  less,  Madame,  of 
your  generosity.  I  have  heard  so  much  about  you!  Both  of 
us  love  a  very  interesting  young  lady.  Mile.  Letellier,  who  is 
now  enjoying  my  hospitality. 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Rising  abruptly;  in  a  choked  Voice]  Are 
you  Madame  Fourchambault? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Also  rising]  Madame  Fourcham- 
bault, Madame!      Allow  me  to  introduce  my  daughter. 

MME.  BERNARD.      Mademoiselle  Blanche. 

BLANCHE.  Who  has  very  much  wanted  to  meet  you, 
Madame,  after  all  the  good  things  Maia  has  said  of  you.  \^The 
ladies  sit  down  again] 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Concealing  her  agitation]  I  wish  she 
praised  me  less  and  came  to  see  me  oftener.  She  is  neglecting 
me  a  little  since  you  settled  in  Ingouville. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  will  probably  see  her  to-day; 
we  are  passing  the  day  at  Le  Havre,  where  we  spent  the  night. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  171 

We  had  a  gala  dinner  last  night  at  the  Prefecture,  and  we  are 
going  to  the  theatre  to-night  —  in  the  Prefect's  box.  —  Oh,  let 
me  announce  to  you  the  engagement  of  my  daughter  to  the 
young  Baron  Rastiboulois. 

MME.  BERNARD.  My  hearty  congratulations,  Mademoi- 
selle! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  The  banns  are  published:  in  a 
week  this  little  girl  will  be  a  baroness.  We  sign  the  contract 
next  Wednesday;  I  hope  you  will  come  to  our  little  soiree  — it 
will  be  quite  a  modest  affair. 

MME.  BERNARD.       I,  Madame? 

BLANCHE.      Please,  for  your  son's  sake,  and  Maia's! 

MME.  BERNARD.  It  would  be  a  great  pleasure,  ladies,  but 
—  my  dress,  you  see? 

BLANCHE.      That's  so:   you're  in  mourning! 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  have  worn  it  for  many  years  —  I  shall 
never  wear  anything  else. 

BLANCHE.      Is  that  why  you  don't  go  about,  then? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Blanche! 

MME.  BERNARD.      Yes,  Mademoiselle. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  causing 
you  an  unhappy  thought.  We  regret  very  deeply  that  you 
cannot  come,  Madame.  —  Come,  Blanche!     \^She  rises^ 

BLANCHE.  [^Picking  up  her  pocl^eiboof[\  Remember  the 
poor,  please! 

MME.  BERNARD.  We  were  forgetting.  [5Ae  opens,  then 
closes  her  purse^  I  haven't  the  right  amount  with  me.  Excuse 
me  a  moment;   I'll  be  back  shortly.      \^She  goes  out,  lefQ 

BLANCHE.      Maia  is  right:  she's  very  nice! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Not  at  all  bad;  she's  gone  to 
get  her  five-franc  piece! 

BLANCHE.      How  do  you  know? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  When  she  opened  her  purse  I  saw 
gold. 

BLANCHE.      Well,  she's  already  given  something. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      That's  true;    but  if  she  has  any 


172  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

sort  of  breeding  she  must  know  that  people  don't  give  collectors 
like  me  five-franc  pieces.  Why,  everything  looks  so  poor  here! 
Look  at  the  room!      How  cold! 

BLANCHE.  It  is  a  trifle  severe  —  there  can't  be  much 
merrymaking  in  this  place.  It  seems  quite  in  harmony  with 
Mme.  Bernard's  looks. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Yes,  her  looks!  Can't  you  see, 
her  everlasting  mourning  is  only  a  form  of  economy!  Do  you 
believe  in  wearing  mourning  forever? 

Enter  the  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.     [^Announcing]     Mile.  Letellier! 

Enter  MARIE. 

MARIE.      You  here? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  made  us  so  curious  to  see 
Mme.  Bernard  —  ! 

BLANCHE.      We're  here  on  a  pretext  of  collecting  for  charity. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  She  has  gone  to  get  a  five-franc 
piece  for  us:  she  had  nothing  but  gold  in  her  purse. 

MARIE.      That's  not  like  her. 

Enter  MME.  BERNARD,  left. 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Shaking  hands  with  MARIE]  How  are 
you,  Marie?  [To  BLANCHE]  Here  is  my  contribution, 
Mademoiselle.  [To  MARIE]  It  seems  as  if  I  hadn't  seen  you 
for  a  century! 

BLANCHE.      A  thousand-franc  note.  Mamma! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Oh,  it's  too  much,  Madame! 

MME.  BERNARD.  We  can  never  give  too  much  to  the 
orphans. 

BLANCHE.      How  they  will  bless  you! 

MME.  BERNARD.  [Taking  her  hand]  May  God  bless  you 
instead,  my  child!      [Smiling]      Let  it  be  my  wedding  present! 

BLANCHE.      My  nicest! 

MARIE.     [^/4s/(/e]      What  a  cheirming  woman! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  173 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Dryly]  If  everyone  is  as  gen- 
erous as  you,  Madame,  we  shall  reap  a  wonderful  harvest,  — 
Come,  Blanche! 

BLANCHE.  See  you  later,  Maia  —  Thank  you,  Madame: 
you  will  bring  us  good  luck! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [To  MME.  BERNARD]  Don't 
trouble  to  show  us  out,  please:  you  have  a  visitor  —  \^Aside,  as 
she  stands  on  the  threshold^      What  ostentation! 

BLANCHE  and  MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT  go  out. 

MME.  BERNARD.      Why  does  she  seem  SO  nettled? 

MARIE.  She  headed  the  subscription  list  herself  with  50 
piasters  —  she  is  now  outdistanced  by  200  —  it's  a  hard  dose  for 
her  to  swallow. 

MME.  BERNARD.  ^Smiling]  Really!  Tell  her  my  gift 
is  to  be  anonymous! 

MARIE.      That  will  put  her  in  good  humour  again. 

MME.  BERNARD.  Poor  woman!  My  son  says  her  moral 
sense  is  —  underdeveloped. 

MARIE.  Your  son  holds  her  up  to  a  rather  difficult  standard 
—  and  that  standard  is  right  under  his  eyes!  Mme.  Four- 
chambault  is  as  honest  as  the  average,  you  may  be  sure.  Perhaps 
she  is  one  of  those  people  who  like  to  deceive  themselves,  and  see 
the  stars  at  high  noon!  But  she's  really  a  very  good  sort  of 
woman  —  with  good  business  sense,  except  that  sometimes  she 
changes  her  monomanias! 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  see:  obstinate  and  changeable  at  the 
same  time. 

MARIE.  That's  about  it.  She  is  like  a  spoiled  child; 
we  must  forgive  her  and  admit  that  she  has  compensating 
qualities! 

MME.  BERNARD.      What? 

MARIE.       I'm  thinking. 

MME.  BERNARD.  Well,  she  accommodates  herself  to  every- 
one! —  Is  her  husband  happy  with  her? 

MARIE.      I  think  so:  he's  not  too  particular  —  He's  so  good! 


174  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

—  Good,  the  way  bread  is  good!  It'shisfate  to  be  eaten!  He 
lets  himself  be  devoured  without  a  single  complaint  —  he's 
ground  up  into  tiny  crumbs! 

MME.  BERNARD.      Why  do  you  make  fun  of  the  poor  man? 

—  Tha   s  not  kind  of  you. 

MARIE.      It  doesn't  prevent  my  loving  him,  anyway! 

Enter  BERNARD. 

BERNARD.  \^Aside]  Marie!  [_To  MARIE]  How  are 
you,  Mademoiselle?      [^He  goes  to  the  table^ 

MARIE.      How  are  you,  M.  Bernard? 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Leaving  the  sofa  and  going  to  her  son^ 
Has  Chauvet  come? 

BERNARD.      Yes,  he's  going  to  take  dinner  with  us  to-night. 

MME.  BERNARD.       Is  he  well? 

BERNARD.  ^Laying  some  papers  on  the  table^  Splendid. 
[^To  MARIEJ      Papa  Fourchambault  isn't  doing  well,  is  he? 

MARIE.      How  is  that? 

MME.  BERNARD.       Is  he  sick? 

BERNARD.  Not  he!  His  business!  —  He's  about  to  sus- 
pend payment. 

MARIE.      My  God! 

MME.  BERNARD.      Poor  man! 

BERNARD.      [lo  MARIE]      Didn't  you  know? 

MARIE.  No  one  in  the  family  knows  anything  about  it  — 
The  poor  people! 

BERNARD.  He  didn't  want  to  confess  he  was  ruined  until 
the  last  resource  failed. 

MME.  BERNARD.  He  was  caught  in  that  dreadful  failure 
of  Cartier  Brothers,  wasn't  he? 

BERNARD.      He  has  240,000  francs  of  their  notes. 

MME.  BERNARD.  And  will  he  go  bankrupt  for  so  small  a 
sum?     The  great  House  of  Fourchambault! 

BERNARD.  Most  of  which  must  have  been  exterior 
decoration. 

MME.  BERNARD.       His  wife  ruined  him. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  175 

BERNARD.  Shouldn't  wonder!  —  The  poor  fellow  is  trying 
everywhere  to  get  money  —  no  one  will  let  him  have  a  sou.  The 
very  fact  that  he  wants  to  borrow  makes  everyone  suspicious; 
they  had  no  idea  he  was  so  near  disaster! 

MARIE.      But  his  friends ? 

MME.  BERNARD.  They  are  in  danger  too,  because  of  him  — 
or  pretend  to  be  —  and  are  only  too  glad  to  find  a  pretext  for 
refusing  to  help  him. 

MARIE,  Oh,  Madame!  Do  you  mean  that  this  honest 
man  cannot  find  a  single  friend  who  will  risk  something  to  save 
his  honour? 

BERNARD.      In  business  there  are  no  friends! 

MARIE.  He  has  at  least  one!  My  farm  is  sold;  I'm  going 
to  get  40,000  francs 

MME.  BERNARD.  Would  you  do  that?  That's  a  kind 
deed,  my  child! 

BERNARD.      It'll  be  only  a  drop  in  the  bucket. 

MARIE.      That's  so!      But  drops  of  water  make  rivers! 

BERNARD.  You  seem  to  be  deeply  concerned  for  the  honour 
of  that  family! 

MARIE.  Monsieur,  I  am.  They  took  me  in  when  I  was 
in  trouble,  and  I'll  not  leave  them  when  they  are  in  danger.  If 
I'm  the  only  one  who  will  help  them  —  I  who  have  known  them 
for  so  short  a  time — so  much  the  worse  for  the  others! —  I'll  see 
you  later!      {^She  goes  ouQ 

BERNARD.      But,  Mademoiselle 

MME.  BERNARD.      Let  her  do  it. 

BERNARD.      Why  do  you  say  that? 

MME.  BERNARD.  It's  so  good  to  see  a  kind  act!  Besides 
that  will  cost  nothing:  someone  else  is  going  to  save  M. 
Fourchambault! 

BERNARD.      [^Indifferently]      Yes?      Who? 

MME.  BERNARD.      [Supplicating  hini]      You! 

BERNARD.  I?  No!  A  thousand  times  no!  I  have  no 
40,000  francs  to  throw  into  the  street! 

MME.  BERNARD.      /  ask  you. 


176  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

BERNARD.  What's  this  fellow  to  you  —  ?  you  don't  even 
know  him? 

MME.  BERNARD.  [///  at  ease]  Do  I  need  to  know  him? 
Marie's  affection  for  him  is  sufficient  to  show  that  he  deserves 
the  help  of  any  honest  person.  Should  we  be  less  generous  than 
that  poor  child? 

BERNARD.  \^CrossIy]  I'm  not  in  love  with  M.  Leopold! 
If  I  did  give  in  to  this  idea  of  yours,  I  should  be  only  postponing 
Fourchambault's  ruin  —  it  will  be  so  much  the  worse  when  it 
comes.  With  a  wife  like  his  —  he  can't  keep  her  from  squan- 
dering —  his  position  will  always  be  as  precarious  as  it  has  been: 
more  so:  his  credit  won't  be  good. 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Meditating']  That  is  true,  we  can't 
take  half-way  measures  —  that  house  needs  to  be  ruled  with 
an  iron  hand:  yours!  I  don't  ask  you  to  do  that,  I  com- 
mand you! 

BERNARD.  Do  you  want  me  to  go  into  partnership  with 
that  fool? 

MME.  BERNARD.  That's  the  only  way  you  could  really  be 
in  control  —  and  put  things  in  order. 

BERNARD.  Why,  this  is  absurd!  If  it's  only  a  question  of 
money,  I  —  don't  object!  But  how  can  I  manage  his  private 
affairs? 

MME.  BERNARD.  [Rising  to  her  full  height]  You  must  — 
I  wish  it  —  it  is  your  duty. 

BERNARD.      [After  a  pause]      That  man  is  my  father. 

MME.  BERNARD.      Yes. 

BERNARD.      Do  you  still  love  him? 

MME.  BERNARD.  [Simply]  No;  but  he  is  the  only  man 
I  ever  did  love.      I  —  beg  you! 

BERNARD.  I  shall  do  everything  you  ask  —  I  shall  look 
after  his  welfare  as  if  it  were  my  own.  []mME.  BERNARD  tal^es 
his  hand  and  presses  it  to  her  lips]  But  I  don't  have  to  tell  him 
that  I  am  his  son,  do  I  ? 

MME.  BERNARD.  No,  certainly  not!  What  would  be  the 
use?      [They  sit  side  by  side,  his  hand  in  hers] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  177 

BERNARD.  Good,  but  when  I'm  his  partner,  how  can  I 
prevent  his  coming  here? 

MME.  BERNARD.  My  rooms  are  on  a  separate  floor,  you 
know. 

BERNARD,      He'll  ask  to  meet  you. 

MME.  BERNARD.  You  can  tell  him  I  never  meet  anyone  — 
you  can  pretend  that  I  object  to  your  partnership. 

BERNARD,  But  what  if  he  should  meet  you  some  time,  by 
accident?      He  might  be  coming  in  with  me? 

MME.  BERNARD.  He  would  not  recognise  me  now.  I 
thought  of  all  these  things  before  I  let  you  settle  in  Le  Havre. 
Once  when  you  were  in  town  on  business,  I  arranged  a  meeting 
with  M.  Fourchambault. 

BERNARD.      And  didn't  he  recognise  you? 

MME.  BERNARD.  He  had  not  seen  me  for  thirty  years: 
my  face  had  changed,  and  my  name  was  not  the  same. 

BERNARD.  And  he  was  preoccupied  at  the  time!  His  rich 
marriage  didn't  succeed!  Poor  man!  What  a  family!  — 
There  he  is,  his  wife  despising  him  and  his  children  with  no  re- 
spect for  him!      How  much  better  if  he  had  married  you! 

MME.  BERNARD.      You  forget:   he  thought  I  was  to  blame. 

BERNARD.  [^Shrugging  his  shoulders]  Oh,  now!  now!  — 
Like  many  another,  he  chose  to  act  according  to  conventional 
morality,  not  the  real,  lasting  morality.  He  got  his  just  punish- 
ment. Far  be  it  from  me  to  condemn  him.  It's  good  for 
him 

MME.  BERNARD.      Bernard! 

BERNARD.  Then  it  isn't  good  for  him!  —  I'll  get  that 
200.000  francs  from  the  Bank 

MME.  BERNARD.     240,000. 

BERNARD.  That's  so,  he  must  pay  back  Marie.  Dear 
child!  It  was  a  splendid  action!  —  \^Kissing  his  mother]  I  — 
adore  you!      \^He  goes  out,  bacli] 

MME.  BERNARD.  [She  stands  with  upturned  eyes']  God  be 
praised! 

CURTAIN 


178  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 


ACT  III 

SCENE: — The  drawing-room  in  the  FOURCHAMBAULTS'  home,  at 
Le  Havre.  —  At  the  back  there  is  a  mantel-piece,  between  two 
windows.  There  is  a  door  on  either  side  of  the  room,  up-stage, 
and  one  down-stage  to  the  right.  Down-stage  to  the  left  is  a 
table.  Two  double  chairs  are  near  the  mantel-piece;  a  small 
sofa,  centre;  another  table,  right.     LEOPOLD  is  discovered  alone. 

LEOPOLD.  [^He  has  his  hat  on,  and  is  putting  on  his  gloves. 
Lool^ing  at  the  clocl[\  Three  o'clock!  Why  should  I  go  to  the 
office?  Well,  to  satisfy  Father!  [^He  yawnsJi  Doesn't  take 
me  long  to  get  used  to  doing  without  the  club!  Well,  I've  made 
up  for  lost  sleep  last  night!  To  bed  at  five  A.  M.,  and  up  at  two 
in  the  afternoon  —  that's  just  right.  Didn't  sleep  very  well, 
though:  dreamed  that  Maia  was  married  to  that  pirate  of  the 
high  seas —  I  was  furious  at  the  thought!  \^He  yawns  again^ 
I'm  fearfully  empty!  Oh,  of  course:  I  haven't  had  any  lunch  1 
\^He  rings  the  bell,  and  a  servant  appears  at  the  door,  left^  Bring 
me  a  glass  of  Malaga  and  some  biscuits  —  a  lot  of  biscuits 

The  SERVANT  goes  out.  Enter  BLANCHE,  right.  She  wears 
the  same  dress  as  in  the  second  act,  and  carries  a  riding-whip 
wrapped  in  paper. 

BLANCHE.      Here  we  are! 

LEOPOLD.      Who,  we? 

BLANCHE.  Mother  and  I,  of  course.  Oh,  you  needn't  look 
for  her,  she's  not  hidden  in  my  skirt.  She  went  straight  to  her 
room,  where  the  notary  is  waiting.  He  has  some  important 
news  for  her.      [^She  sits  on  the  sofa^ 

LEOPOLD.       It's  probably  about  the  contract. 

BLANCHE.      Probably.  —  Guess  where  we've  been? 

LEOPOLD.      At  Mme.  Rastiboulois',  of  course. 

BLANCHE.  No!  Between  last  night's  dinner  and  to-night's 
theatre  I  haven't  as  yet  been  consumed  with  a  desire  to  see  my 
mother-in-law-to-be. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  179 

LEOPOLD.      Mother  should  have  been. 

BLANCHE.  She  was  —  a  little  bit,  but  I  dissuaded  her.  It 
was  not  easy,  she's  like  a  little  child  —  she  thinks  she's  a  baroness 
and  a  prefect's  wife  at  the  same  time.  If  this  marriage  were  to 
fall  through,  she'd  go  into  a  decline. 

LEOPOLD.  But  it  can't  —  matters  have  gone  so  far!  If 
you  haven't  come  from  the  Prefecture,  where  on  earth  have  you 
come  from? 

BLANCHE.      Mme.  Bernard's. 

LEOPOLD.      Ha!      Ha!      What  sort  of  person  is  she? 

BLANCHE.  Very  distinguished-looking.  You've  lost  your 
bet,  poor  old  Leopold.  I've  been  wanting  a  riding-whip,  so 
I  bought  this  on  my  way  home.      They'll  send  you  the  bill. 

LEOPOLD.  Don't  put  that  among  your  wedding-presents: 
it  might  remind  you  of  your  husband-to-be! 

BLANCHE.  He  hasn't  anything  to  fear  —  if  he  doesn't  begin 
again. 

Enter  a  SERVANT,  carrying  a  hoitle  of  Malaga  and  some  biscuits 

on  a  tray. 

SERVANT.      There,  Monsieur! 

BLANCHE.      For  you?      Are  you  just  having  lunch? 

LEOPOLD.  [^Sitting  down  and  dipping  a  biscuit  into  the  wine] 
This  is  the  first  thing  I've  had  to  eat  to-day. 

BLANCHE.  Why,  Germain  told  us  you  were  to  take  lunch  in 
town. 

LEOPOLD.  I  instructed  him  to  tell  that  pious  lie  —  then 
I  went  to  sleep  again. 

BLANCHE.      Lazy!      We  didn't  come  home  so  late  last  night! 

LEOPOLD.  I  know;  but  I'm  not  sure  whether  it  was  the  bad 
champagne  or  the  strange  bed 

BLANCHE.  It  must  have  been  the  bed!  It's  a  long  time 
since  you  slept  on  the  carpet  —  you  must  be  nearly  dead! 

LEOPOLD.      What  do  you  mean? 

BLANCHE.  Will  you  wager  that  you  didn't  spend  the  night 
at  the  club?      Ten  louis! 


180  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

LEOPOLD.    And  fifty  I  lost:   total,  sixty!      No,  thanks! 

BLANCHE.  After  such  splendid  resolutions!  What  weather- 
cocks men  are! 

LEOPOLD.  Well,  Miss  Preacher,  for  your  edification  let  me 
state  that  what  I  did  was  a  noble  deed.  It  seems  that  Maia 
has  been  slightly  compromised  by  my  patriarchal  manners; 
now,  as  it  is  not  in  my  character  to  compromise  ladies 

BLANCHE.      You  prefer  to  ruin  them? 

LEOPOLD.  [^Nervously']  Yes!  [^Getting  hold  of  himself^ 
What  are  you  talking  about,  child? 

BLANCHE.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Monsieur,  it  just  slipped 
out.  I  thought  I  was  a  week  older  than  I  am;  in  a  week,  you 
know,  I'll  have  the  right  to  say  a  lot  of  things  that  I  ought  not 
to  think  to-day.  [_Enter  MARIE,  right  She  stands  by  the  door^ 
Funny,  isn't  it? 

LEOPOLD.      Yes,  very. 

MARIE.  [^^5i</c3  I  wonder  if  they  know  yet?  —  Has  your 
father  come  in? 

LEOPOLD.  No,  he's  at  the  office  —  where  I'm  not!  \^The 
clock  strikes^  Half  past!  What  a  row  I'm  in  for!  Pray  for 
me,  Maia.      [^He  goes  out^ 

BLANCHE.  Fool!  He's  kept  me  here  half  an  hour:  I'll 
go  and  fix  my  hair  and  be  back  at  once.  \^She  goes  out,  right, 
doicn-stage^ 

MARIE.  {^Standing  near  the  mantel-piece^  M.  Fourcham- 
bault's  absence  can  mean  only  bad  news!  Poor  people!  What 
a  blow! 

Enter  FOURCHAMBAULT,  at  the  hack.  He  crosses  the  stage,  and 
sits  on  one  of  the  double  chairs  down-stage.  MARIE  goes 
to  him. 

MARIE.      Well,  have  you  found  it? 
FOURCHAMBAULT.      What? 

MARIE.  What  you  were  looking  for?  I  know  all  about 
your  troublel 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  181 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Do  the  others  here  know  it? 

MARIE.      Not  yet. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      No,  I've  found  nothing. 

MARIE.  I  was  luckier  than  you:  I've  found  40,000  francs 
for  you.  [^She  opens  a  small  pockd-bool^  and  iak.es  some  bank- 
notes from  it] 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Where  did  you  get  these? 

MARIE.  [^Lowering  her  eyes']  From  someone  who  doesn't 
want  his  name  known! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      How  can  I  give  him  a  receipt? 

MARIE.      He  doesn't  want  one:   he  trusts  you. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      How  can  I  repay  him? 

MARIE.       I'll  take  it  to  him. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  ^Rising,  deeply  touched]  Take  it  to  him 
now:  these  40,000  francs  can't  save  me.  He  can  make  better 
use  of  them  than  I  can!  \^Aside]  She  is  too  generous  not  to 
be  poor!  [^Ta^ing  MARIE'S  hands  in  his]  Thank  you,  dear 
child,  I  appreciate  this!  But  keep  your  little  fortune,  I  don't 
need  it.  I  am  going  to  do  the  only  thing  I  can  do:  ask  Mme. 
Fourchambault. 

MARIE.      What? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  She  is  rich.  I  have  no  right  to  touch 
her  personal  fortune  without  her  consent.  I  know  she'll  force 
me  to  pay  a  high  rate  for  my  money,  but  there's  nothing  else  to 
do.  And  yet  my  present  condition  is  due  to  her.  I've  been 
anything  but  happy! 

MARIE.      And  a  little  your  fault,  too. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  know  that.  My  wife  is  really  not  so 
much  to  blame;  I've  been  too  indulgent  with  her.  I  can't, 
somehow,  bear  to  refuse  anything  to  anybody  —  and  then,  I 
detest  argument.  Look,  see  how  my  hand  is  trembling!  I'm 
afraid  to  see  my  wife!  ' 

MARIE.      Courage!      She  can't  refuse. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Here  she  is. 

Enter  MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT,  down-stage,  right. 


182  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Well,  Monsieur,  was  I  so  wrong 
when  I  advised  you  to  let  Leopold  take  care  of  your  business? 
Stay,  Marie!  —  If  you  had  only  listened  to  me,  we  wouldn't  be 
where  we  are  to-day! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  How  could  Leopold  have  done  any 
better  than  I? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Never  mind  that.  I  could  show 
you  that  too  easily  —  only  I  don't  like  to  strike  a  man  when  he's 
down.  I  blame  you  for  one  thing  only:  you  should  have 
spoken  to  me  instead  of  to  strangers,  and  letting  the  whole  town 
find  out  about  the  terrible  condition  your  business  was  in.  You 
make  people  think  your  wife  has  no  heart,  no  sense!  I  can't 
forgive  you  for  that. 

MARIE.      l^Aside  to  FOURCHAMBAULT]     What  did  I  say? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [To  his  wife]  I  confess  I  was  wrong. 
But  Maia  will  tell  you  that  I  was  going  to  ask  you  for  the  help 
you  are  generous  enough  to  offer  me. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I?  I'm  not  offering  you  any- 
thing! This  morning  I  should  have,  but  now,  what's  the  use? 
Everyone  knows  about  it.  All  my  money  couldn't  save  you 
now  —  my  notary  just  told  me. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Then  do  you  want  me  to  file  for  bank- 
ruptcy?     I  should  never  live  through  the  shame! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I'm  just  as  ashamed  as  you! 
Such  a  pitiful  little  bankruptcy!  Well,  the  only  thing  now  is 
to  think  of  the  children's  future 

MARIE.      And  —  honour? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  It's  not  a  question  of  honour.  M. 
Fourchambault  will  have  to  give  way  to  force  —  as  my  notary 
said. 

MARIE.  But  if  you  are  still  rich  eifter  he  is  bankrupt,  the 
dishonour  will  be  yours. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  My  dear  child,  you're  a  little 
savage.  Such  things  as  this  occur  every  day  in  Europe;  we 
don't  do  such  quixotic  things  as  you  imply.  No  one  would 
blame  us! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  183 

MARIE.  Except  your  husband  —  and  his  creditors.  Savage 
or  not,  Madame,  the  man  whose  name  I  bear  never  need  be 
ashamed  so  long  as  I  have  independent  means  to  help  him! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      [_Dryly2     A  fine  theory! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      She  offered  me  all  her  fortune. 

MARIE.      And  I  offer  it  again. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Aside]  Can  she  be  fishing  for 
a  husband?  —  It's  very  nice,  Mademoiselle,  and  does  you  credit, 
but  I  am  first  and  foremost  a  mother.  He's  asking  me  for  my 
children's  dowry.      I  refuse. 

Enter  LEOPOLD.      He  overhears  his  mother's  last  words. 

LEOPOLD.      \^Quic}^ly']    Refuse  for  my  sister,  but  not  for  me! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Now  he  comes  and  — !  This  is 
the  last  straw! 

LEOPOLD.  You  are  the  only  one  who  can  save  us!  I  don't 
understand  why  you  hesitate? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  To  throw  the  little  we  have  into 
the  street,  where  your  father  has  thrown  the  rest? 

LEOPOLD.      Don't  blame  him. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Whom  should  I  blame?  He's 
lacked  business  "go"  all  his  life,  and  now  he  lacks  commonsense 
—  perfect ! 

LEOPOLD.  [^Forcefully']  What  you  call  lack  of  business 
"go"  was  merely  friendly  confidence  in  the  business  men  of 
Le  Havre;  what  you  call  lack  of  commonsense,  I  call  his  business 
honour — the  honour  of  our  family,  and  I  thank  him  for  protect- 
ing it  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart!  Father,  you  needn't  be 
ashamed,  your  children  are  with  you! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      My  son! 

MARIE.      Good,  Leopold! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  If  we  act  on  our  feelings,  every- 
thing is  lost.  Don't  mix  sentiment  with  business  —  as  my 
notary  said.  You  may  all  be  against  me;  I'll  take  matters  in 
hand  for  everybody  in  this  house —  I'm  the  only  one  who  can 
manage  things.      Some  day  you'll  thank  me. 


184  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

LEOPOLD,      But,  Mother 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  That's  my  last  word. 
SERVANT.  [^Announcing]  Monsieur  Bernard. 
LEOPOLD.      A  visit,  at  this  time! 

Enter  BERNARD.      He  is  tery  nervous,  and  stops  at  the  door. 
LEOPOLD  goes  to  him. 

LEOPOLD.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Monsieur,  but  you  have 
interrupted  a  family  conference 

BERNARD.  I  shall  not  be  in  the  way.  [To  FOURCHAM- 
BAULTJ  I  understand,  Monsieur,  that  you  need  240,000  francs? 
I  have  the  money  here. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Monsieur ? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      [Aside]     What  luck! 

LEOPOLD.  [Aside]  I'd  rather  be  under  obligations  to  any 
other  man  on  earth  than  him! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [To  BERNARD]  The  moment  those 
whom  I  had  a  right  to  count  on  fail  me,  you,  Monsieur,  who  owe 
me  nothing  —  God  bless  you!      You  —  have  saved  my  life! 

LEOPOLD.      Your  life? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Do  you  imagine  I  should  have  lived 
after  this  disgrace? 

BERNARD.      [Aside]     A  man  of  honour! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      How  grateful  I  am.  Monsieur ! 

BERNARD.  [Coldly]  There  is  no  question  of  gratitude, 
Monsieur.  This  is  not  so  much  a  service  I  am  rendering  you, 
as  a  pure  business  proposition. 

LEOPOLD.      [Aside]    That's  better! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [Sitting  on  a  chair,  left,  and  motioning 
BERNARD  to  sit  down]     Two  birds  with  one  stone,  then! 

BERNARD.  This  is  what  I  propose:  I  believe  that  the  House 
of  Fourchambault  can  be  put  on  its  feet  again,  and  I  offer  to 
become  not  your  creditor,  but  your  partner.  What  do  you  say 
to[that? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  What  do  I  say?  Your  money  is  wel- 
come, but  your  name — !      Why,  that  alone  would  be  enough 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  185 

to  give  me  full  credit  again,  and  then  your  energy  and  experience 


BERNARD.      Good!      Then  you  accept? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  should  think  I  did!  [//e  offers  to  shake 
hands  with  BERNARD;  BERNARD  hesitates  a  moment  before 
shaking  FOURCHAMBAULT'S  hand^ 

BERNARD.  \^Rising]  Done!  Hand-shake  before  the  con- 
tract, like  the  immersion  at  home  before  the  baptism.^  Intro- 
duce me  at  your  office  to-day  as  your  partner. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Allow  the  family  to  thank  you 
sincerely,  Monsieur! 

LEOPOLD.  {^Coldly]  I  trust,  Monsieur,  that  you  will  find 
the  arrangement  as  profitable  for  yourself  as  for  us! 

BERNARD.  [^Coldly]  I  make  the  offer  in  that  hope.  Shall 
we  go  into  your  office,  M.  Fourchambault?  We  have  some 
important  matters  to  discuss. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      [^Leading  the  way]    This  way,  please! 

BERNARD.  [To  MARIE,  who  shakes  his  hand  warmly,  in  the 
passage-way]    Are  you  glad? 

MARIE.      Oh,  yes! 

BERNARD  and  FOURCHAMBAULT  go  out,  left. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      What  great  luck! 

MARIE.  To  think  that  he  was  so  near  all  the  time!  And 
we  never  suspected!  When  I  think  of  what  M.  Fourchambault 
said  he  would  have  done 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  shouldn't  have  let  him  do  that! 
Poor  old  fellow!  I  had  to  summon  up  all  my  will-power  to 
refuse  him!  Now  all's  well  that  ends  well  —  oh,  no:  every- 
thing's not  ended! 

LEOPOLD.      What's  the  matter? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Your  sister's  marriage? 

LEOPOLD.      Are  you  afraid  they'll  want  to  break  it  off? 

^  In  France  it  is  often  customary  for  the  parents  to  baptize  their  child  for- 
mally at  home,  before  the  church  ceremony. 


186  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  The  House  of  Fourchambault  is 
under  a  cloud! 

LEOPOLD.      It  will  come  out  soon! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  hope  so,  but  between  a  house 
under  a  cloud,  and  one  in  full  prosperity,  like  that  of  the  Du- 
hamels 

LEOPOLD.  The  Baron  is  too  proud  to  break  it  off  for  a  matter 
of  money! 

MARIE.  [^Insinuaiingly^  Madame  means  that  it  would  be 
more  gracious  to  give  them  a  chance  of  refusing? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      I?      I  don't  mean  that  at  all! 

LEOPOLD.  Well,  you  are  wrong  —  Marie  is  perfectly  right. 
We  ought  to  give  them  the  opportunity. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      And  what  if  the  Baron  accepts? 

LEOPOLD.  He  will  do  a  shameful  and  dishonourable  deed: 
that's  all. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  That's  all?  And  what  about 
Blanche? 

MARIE.  I  really  think  she  wouldn't  very  much  regret  her 
fiance! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  That  isn't  the  question:  the 
banns  are  published,  the  invitations  sent  out  for  the  signing  of 
the  contract,  the  trousseau  linen  is  all  marked  with  a  crown 

LEOPOLD.      Take  off  the  crown! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      People  will  laugh  at  us! 

LEOPOLD.  Let  them  laugh!  They'd  rather  make  fun  of 
the  prefect!  You  know  France!  And  then,  for  that  matter, 
what  of  it?  Let  us  act  honourably,  no  matter  what  happens. 
Father  will  have  to  go  to  the  Prefecture;  the  sooner  the  better 

GERMAIN.      [^AnnouncingJi    M.  le  baron  Rastiboulois. 

LEOPOLD.      The  Baron! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      So  soon! 

Enter  RASTIBOULOIS. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  What  is  this  I  hear,  my  poor  friends? 
May  I  speak  before  Mademoiselle? 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  187 

LEOPOLD.      She  is  one  of  the  family! 

RASTIBOULOIS.  \^Aside]  So  they  say!  —  Believe  me  when 
I  say  that  no  one  more  than  I  feels  so  keenly  this  misfortune 
that  has  come  to  you!  My  son  is  hard  hit  by  the  blow  —  he 
loved  Mademoiselle  Blanche  so  deeply! 

LEOPOLD.      Loved?      He  doesn't  love  her  any  longer,  then? 

RASTIBOULOIS.      I  don't  say  that  —  but  you  understand ? 

LEOPOLD.  We  understand  so  well  that  my  father  was  about 
to  give  you  the  opportunity  of  refusing.  We  regret  that  you 
were  put  to  the  trouble  of  coming  first! 

RASTIBOULOIS.  I  should  have  expected  no  less  from  your 
sense  of  what  is  fitting. 

LEOPOLD.  But  we  should  have  expected  more  from  your 
sense  of  courtesy. 

RASTIBOULOIS.       Oh,  I 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.     In  a  word,  you  wish  to  break  off 

the  match ? 

[RASTIBOULOIS.      Alas,  Madame,  as  a  father,  as  a  magistrate, 
as  a  gentleman 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  thought  you  were  above  mone- 
tary considerations 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [^Rather  sharply]  Ah,  money!  Your  ruin 
if  anything  would  have  brought  us  closer  together:  the  only 
question  in  my  mind  hitherto  was  the  disparity  of  our  for- 
tunes. I  have  said  that  continually,  proclaimed  it  in  the  streets 
of  Le  Havre.  What  would  Le  Havre  say  now,  what  would 
all  France  say  if  Rastiboulois  were  to  take  back  his  word  like 
the  lowest  of  serfs?  No,  no,  Madame,  if  I  withdraw  now  it  is 
solely  because  bankruptcy  stares  you  in  the  face! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Bankruptcy?  I  don't  under- 
stand? 

RASTIBOULOIS.      Why,  M.  Fourchambault's ? 

LEOPOLD.      There  is  no  question  of  bankruptcy.  Monsieur. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [/n  consternation]  What?  Isn't  your 
father  about  to  suspend  payment? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Who  told  you  that? 


188  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Why  —  your  notary,  Madame,  who  is 
likewise  my  own. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  To-morrow  we  shall  open  our 
windows  as  usual.      All  payments  will  be  made. 

RASTIBOULOIS.      Indeed!      Oh,  I'm  charmed,  charmed 

MARIE.      [^Aside^     That's  not  hard  to  see! 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Madame,  you  are  making  a  great  and  noble 
sacrifice! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  There  is  no  sacrifice  at  all.  Mon- 
sieur! 

RASTIBOULOIS.  \^Stupefief\  Then  you  are  not  paying  the 
deficit?      Who  then? 

LEOPOLD.      M.  Bernard. 

RASTIBOULOIS.      M.  Bernard! 

LEOPOLD.  Who  has  just  entered  into  partnership  with  my 
father. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [^Agreeably  surprisef}  Partnership?!  Ah, 
that's  different!  Why  couldn't  you  tell  me  that  at  once? 
This  good  fortune  you  have  richly  deserved,  my  dear  friends! 
That's  a  bit  of  news  that  will  take  the  wind  out  of  the  sails  of 
the  Duhamels!  I  shan't  be  sorry;  they  haven't  acted  very 
friendly  to  you  in  this  business,  I  tell  you.  Ha!  Ha!  They 
thought  they  would  be  alone  in  the  field  now!  Ha!  Ha!  I 
can  see  their  faces  when  they  hear  that  M.  Bernard  is  your  part- 
ner  

LEOPOLD.      Silent  partner. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  What  is  his  share  in  the  business?  What 
did  he  put  in? 

LEOPOLD.      240,000  francs. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  No  more?  You  know  the  partner  can't 
be  held  for  more  than  he  has  originally  paid? 

LEOPOLD.  And  for  that  reason  we  are  giving  you  the  chance 
of  refusing  a  second  time. 

MARIE.  But  what  would  Le  Havre  say?  What  would 
France  say? 

RASTIBOULOIS.     ZDrylif]    Mademoiselle,  I  am  glad  I  was 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  189 

told  you  were  of  the  family!  \^To  himself^  Fool!  She  could 
have  got  me  out  of  this  beautifully!  —  France  will  say,  my 
jocose  young  friend,  that  Rastiboulois  is  faithful  to  his  motto: 
"One  heart,  one  promise."  I  have  given  both,  Madame,  and  I 
take  back  neither, 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Ah,  Baron,  I  have  found  the  real 
Baron  again! 

RASTIBOULOIS.      On  the  field  of  honour  —  as  always! 

MARIE.      J^Aside^     Too  much  plume!  ^ 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [^Hypocritically]  I  cannot  tell  you,  my 
dear  friends,  my  —  relatives,  how  happy  I  am  over  the  outcome 
of  this  little  conference!  I  wish  Fourchambault  were  here; 
I'd  like  to  take  him  in  my  arms. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      He  is  conferring  with  his  partner. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Oh,  don't  disturb  him.  To-night  we'll 
have  a  time  of  it:  don't  forget,  I  am  taking  you  all  to  the  theatre! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      We  shan't  forget,  never  fear! 

RASTIBOULOIS.  I  hope  Mile.  Letellier  will  give  me  the  plea- 
sure of  joining  the  company? 

MARIE.      [Formally]    Too  good  of  you.  Monsieur. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  Not  at  all  —  it's  merely  a  hobby  of  mine: 
a  horticulturist  who  delights  in  collecting  roses! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Please,  Baron! 

LEOPOLD.      [Aside]     Fatuousness! 

RASTIBOULOIS.  [Bowing]  Madame!  Till  this  evening, 
Mademoiselle. 

MARIE.      Thank  you,  Monsieur. 

RASTIBOULOIS.  I  thank  you!  [Aside]  Yes,  /  do!  [He 
goes  out] 

LEOPOLD.      I'm  sorry  the  trousseau  linen  is  marked! 

MARIE.  Poor  child!  What  good  are  all  her  qualities  if 
she's  to  be  bartered  like  that? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      This  is  Europe,  my  dear. 

^  An  allusion  to  a  famous  saying  of  Henri  IV,  to  the  effect  that  he  was  always 
to  be  found  upon  the  field  of  honor  — "sur  le  chemin  de  I'honneur" —  and  might 
be  distinguished  by  his  plume  — "panache." 


190  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

MARIE.  What  a  fine  European  your  Baron  is!  If  he  thinks 
I'm  going  to  accept  his  invitation 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Why  did  you  seem  to  accept  it 
just  now? 

MARIE.  He  accepted  for  me.  You'll  excuse  me  to-night, 
won't  you? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.       If  you  like. 

LEOPOLD.      Excuse  me,  too,  will  you? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      No.  not  you. 

LEOPOLD.      I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Neither  did  I,  but  that's  no 
reason  —  [[/is/Je]]  He  wants  to  stay  alone  with  her!  —  Listen 
to  me:  come  to  my  box,  if  only  for  fifteen  minutes. 

LEOPOLD.       I  can't  refuse  that. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [Taking  him  aside]  And  re- 
member your  grandfather's  wise  words:  "The  worst  sin  is  to 
marry  a  girl  without  a  dowry." 

Enler  FOURCHAMBAULT  and  BERNARD. 

BERNARD  and  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Ah,  here  we  are.  \To 
LEOPOLD  and  MARIE]  Children,  we  have  to  confer  with  Mme. 
Fourchambault. 

LEOPOLD.      Does  M.  Bernard  think  I'm  too  young? 

BERNARD.      Stay  if  you  like! 

LfiOPOLD.  I'd  rather  go.  [Offering  his  hand  to  MARIE] 
I'm  very  glad,  Mademoiselle,  to  be  driven  from  this  —  paradise! 

BERNARD  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

MARIE.     [Smiling]     A  paradise  —  but  without  the  apple! 
LEOPOLD.      Unfortunately! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [Aside]  Little  impudence!  [LEO- 
POLD and  MARIE  go  out] 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Speak,  M.  Bernard. 

BERNARD.      You  have  the  floor.  Monsieur. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      No,  you. 

BERNARD.      Very  well.      We  have  gone  over  the  whole 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  191 

situation,  Madame,  and  are  agreed  on  the  first  point:  a  modifi- 
cation of  your  household  arrangements. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [Fo  her  husband']  What,  modify 
my  household  arrangements? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Yes,  my  dear;  M.  Bernard  thinks  that 
certain  economies 

BERNARD.  To  sum  the  matter  up:  you  spend  120,000 
francs  a  year;  we  believe  that  you  can  do  very  well  —  keep  your 
house  on  a  very  respectable  and  honourable  footing  —  with 
40,000. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  With  40,000!  Tell  me  how, 
Monsieur. 

BERNARD.  Gladly,  Madame:  it's  very  simple.  You  now 
have  six  horses,  ten  servants,  a  house  at  Le  Havre,  a  villa  at 
Ingouville 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Throwing  her  ring  of  keys  on  the 
table]  There  are  my  keys,  Monsieur!  That's  the  simplest 
way  of  all ! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.     Now,  now,  now,  don't  get  angry 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  If  I  have  to  bow  down  to  a  stranger 
in  my  own  house 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  M.  Bernard  is  not  a  stranger,  he  is  my 
partner.  He  is  defending  our  common  interests  —  it  is  his 
right. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  And  what  rights  have  I?  Didn't 
I  bring  you  800,000  francs  when  I  married  you?  Is  it  right  for 
you  to  reduce  our  expenses  to  40,000  francs  a  year  —  that's  only 
the  interest  on  my  dowry?    Do  you  think  it's  right  to  live  on  me? 

BERNARD.  Oh,  Madame,  I  am  defending  your  husband's 
and  your  own  rights  as  well  as  you  are,  and  preserving  your 
husband's  dignity.  Let  us  just  see  what  this  dowry  amounts 
to;  you  make  a  great  point  of  it.  It  seems  that  M.  Fourcham- 
bault  neither  cares  for  nor  can  afford  this  annual  expenditure  of 
120.000  francs. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Oh,  no! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      [^Between  her  teeth]    Coward! 


192  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

BERNARD.  Of  these  120,000  francs,  you  supply  40,000. 
Your  husband  therefore,  spends  80,000  francs  a  year.  Now 
he  has  done  this  for  about  thirty  years.  Figure  up  how  many 
times  you  have  spent  your  dowry,  and  then  let  us  drop  the 
subject. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  ^Going  to  her  husbanf\  What's 
this? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Just  three  times,  my  dear. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      [_Astonishecr\     Oh! 

BERNARD.  M.  Fourchambault  will  make  you  out  a  budget 
which  we  shall  arrange,  and  upon  which  we  shall  be  ready  to  hear 
your  opinion. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      I  won't  let  you  have  it,  Monsieur! 

BERNARD.  So  much  the  better.  —  Now,  Monsieur,  let  us 
carry  our  money  to  your  cashier  for  his  payments  to-morrow. 
At  your  service,  Madame.  {_He  opens  the  door  at  the  hack.,  right, 
and  awaits  FOURCHAMBAULT] 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Till  later,  dear.  \_Aside']  Poor,  poor 
dear!      \_They  go  ouQ 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [_Angrily]  That  Bernard!  The 
brutal  — !  [_Sentimentally~\  That's  the  kind  of  husband  I 
ought  to  have  had! 

CURTAIN 


ACT  IV 

SCENE:  —  Same  as  in  Act  III.  —  MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT  and 
a  SERVANT  are  present. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Ask  M.  Leopold  to  come  here  a 
moment. 

SERVANT.  Monsieur  has  gone  riding  with  Mile.  Blanche 
and  Mile.  Letellier. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Good.  Well,  then,  when  they 
return!  \^The  SERVANT  goes  out^  They  wanted  to  say  good-bye 
to  the  stables.  —  Poor  children!      That  Maia  seems  set  on  trot- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  193 

ting  around  after  my  son.  —  Of  course,  Blanche  is  with  them  — ! 
But  people  are  so  suspicious  nowadays!  We  can't  afford  to 
have  any  more  gossip  at  this  time.  Hm!  only  last  night  the 
Prefect  made  me  say  more  than  I  intended. 

Enter  FOURCHAMBAULT,  right. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Well,  dear,  how  do  you  like  your  finance 
minister?      And  the  budget? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      [^Rising]     Not  at  all. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Ha!  But  last  night  it  seemed  that  the 
Prefect  had  pretty  well  convinced  you  of  the  advantage  of 
Bernard's  reforms!  You  know  I  have  cut  down  only  as  much 
as  I  had  to. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  That  is  exactly  what  I  object  to. 
Somehow  you  can  never  be  reasonable;  you  can't  do  things  by 
halves.  Last  night  the  Prefect  made  a  very  profound  remark  — 
it  would  do  you  good  to  remember  it  —  there  are  only  two  things 
which  can  keep  up  appearances  for  a  business  founded  on  credit: 
parsimony  or  prodigality. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Very  profound,  indeed.  But  you  see, 
I  wanted  to  make  the  transition  easier  for  you. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  No  transition!  Here's  another 
thing  the  Prefect  said:  You  who  were  once  the  Mother  of  the 
Graces,  become  now  the  Mother  of  the  Gracchi!^ 

FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  don't  see  the  point. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  It's  clear  enough:  after  having 
reigned  as  Queen  of  Fashion,  I  must  compensate  the  brilliancy 
of  my  reign  by  the  brilliancy  of  my  abdication.  I  want  people 
to  see  me  pass  through  the  streets,  on  foot,  in  a  plain  woolen 
dress,  and  I  want  them  to  say:  "There  is  the  woman  who 
wishes  no  other  jewels  than  her  children." 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Now  I  see! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Gioing  him  the  papers  she  has 
been  holding\    That's  good.      Now  you  may  reduce  the  budget: 

toilette,  carriages,  footmen 

^  An  attemptecl  pun  on  "Graces"  and  "Gracques." 


194  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  We  mustn't  go  to  extremes  —  we  should 
keep  at  least  one  carriage  and  one  horse. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  No,  no  —  no  shabby-genteel  re- 
spectability! Nothing  middle-class!  We  have  sufficiently 
noble  connections  not  to  blush  for  our  aristocratic  simplicity. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      But  a  carriage  for  a  banker  is  economy. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Just  as  it  is  for  a  doctor.  Well, 
I  don't  believe  in  professional  carriages.  Take  a  cab  when  you 
need  one. 

FOURCHAMBALUT.      But,  my  dearest 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Are  you  objecting  to  these  reforms 
now?      I  shall  speak  to  M.  Bernard. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.       I'll  take  the  cab! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  And  don't  forget  to  cancel  the 
lease  for  our  villa  at  Ingouville  —  to-day!  You  know,  to- 
morrow will  be  too  late  —  you  mustn't  renew  the  lease. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Yes,  they  will  renew  it  as  a  matter  of 
course.      I'll  write  a  letter  to  the  proprietor. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Of  course  we  have  the  right  to 
sublet  this  house 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  don't  want  you  to  be  deprived  of 
everything. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Poverty  from  now  on  is  going  to 
be  my  luxury.  On  my  grave  I  want  the  words:  "She  stayed 
at  home;  she  wore  cotton." 

FOURCHAMBAULT.     Your  grave,  dear!     We're  far  from  that! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Who  knows?  Our  bodies  are 
frail  things  —  I  feel  that. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Nonsense! 

Enter  BLANCHE,  at  the  back,  '"  riding-clothes,  a  wallet  slung  over 
her  shoulders. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Alone?  Where  is  Leopold?  And 
Maia? 

BLANCHE.  [^Sitting  to  the  left  of  the  table']  I  beat  them  by 
a  mile!      Of  course,  I  had  Roland! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  195 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      iPointing  to  the  wallet']     What's  that? 

BLANCHE,  Paper  wallet.  —  We've  been  playing  a  game  — 
Rally  Papers  — !       It  was  such  fun! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Rally  Papers?      What's  that? 

BLANCHE.  [^Laying  her  whip  on  the  table.  —  To  her  mother] 
Shall  I  tell  him? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Oh!       I  don't  care! 

BLANCHE.      [To    FOURCHAMBAULT]     Sort    of    chase:     one 

rider  is  a  deer;  he's  given  five  minutes'  start.     He  has  a  bag  of 

papers  which  he  throws  away  as  he  rides:  that's  the  trail.      He's 

got  to  put  the  hounds  off  the  scent,  see?       I  was  the  deer,  and 

I  escaped  the  others.      They're  looking  for  me  up  hill  and  down 

dale r,  If 

Enter  MARIE,  lejt,  in  street'Costume. 

BLANCHE.     [^Rising]  Here  already?   And  changed  so  soon? 

MARIE.  I  gave  up  when  I  lost  the  scent  —  I  came  back  by 
a  short-cut. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      And  Leopold? 

MARIE.  I  left  him  arguing  with  his  horse  at  the  edge  of  a 
ditch.  They  may  have  come  to  an  understanding  by  now.  I 
don't  know! 

BLANCHE.  And  I  thought  I  was  being  pursued!  I  wasn't. 
—  That's  funny,  now,  isn't  it? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  The  child  is  wet  through  with 
perspiration.  Quick,  go  and  change.  \jShe  conducts  BLANCHE 
to  the  door,  left] 

BLANCHE.      Don't  bother. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      She'll  ring  for  Justine. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  What,  leave  my  child  in  merce- 
nary hands? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      [^Aside]     Cornelia! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  [Jo  BLANCHE]  Quick!  Don't 
get  cold!  [^To  her  husband]  Don't  forget  to  write  to  the 
landlord! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [Going  to  the  right]  At  once!  [MME. 
FOURCHAMBAULT  and  BLANCHE  go  out,  left.     Aside]     If  I  had 


196  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

to  choose  my  pose,  I'd  choose  the  one  she's  taking  now.  —  At 
least,  it's  cheaper  than  the  other  I  \^He  sends  a  ^i5s  to  MARIE, 
who  has  remained  at  the  door,  back-       Then  he  goes  out,  right^ 

MARIE.  [^Following  FOURCHAMBAULT  with  her  eyes']  The 
dear  good  man!  I  am  profoundly  happy  to  be  able  to  help  save 
him!  How  grateful  I  am  to  M.  Bernard!  He  has  a  good 
heart!      \^To  LEOPOLD  who  enters  at  the  baclQ      At  last! 

LEOPOLD.       I'm  very  angry  I 

MARIE.      At  the  horse? 

LEOPOLD.      No,  at  you. 

Marie.      What  have  I  done? 

LEOPOLD.  Take  advantage  of  me,  and  gallop  off  full  speed, 
making  a  face  at  me  —  do  you  think  that  was  nice? 

MARIE.  I  admit  the  face  wasn't  nice,  but  really,  you  were 
too  funny! 

LEOPOLD.  You're  just  proud  because  your  horse  would  leap 
without  being  urged.  While  mine  —  !  An  everyday  occur- 
rence! 

MARIE.  But  what  isn't  of  everyday  occurrence  is  a  ditch 
which  cuts  in  half  a  declaration  of  love:  a  gallant  lover  punctuat- 
ing his  tender  advances  with  "Whoa!  Get  up,  there!"  while 
the  amazon  laughs  at  him.  You  must  admit  that's  funny  — 
you're  leaving  that  declaration  at  the  bottom  of  the  ditch. 

LEOPOLD.      What  if  it  attempted  to  climb  out? 

MARIE.      I  have  a  magic  formula  to  send  it  back. 

LEOPOLD.  I  confess  I  was  a  bit  ridiculous  —  but  what  I 
felt  for  you  was  not  —  that  is:  deep  and  sincere.  You  hadn't 
been  here  three  days  before  I  fairly  quivered  —  and  to-day 

MARIE.      Whoa !  —  Go  on ! 

LEOPOLD.      No  —  I  can't  —  now! 

MARIE.      In  the  ditch?      What  did  I  tell  you? 

LEOPOLD.      I  hate  you! 

MARIE.  {^Sitting  down  by  the  table]  This  has  no  more 
truth  in  it  than  what  you  said  before. 

LEOPOLD.  Which  is  as  much  as  saying  that  you  believe 
me  incapable  of  a  single  serious  thought? 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  197 

MARIE.      Yes,  little  Leopold! 

LEOPOLD.      What  if  I  should  prove  some  day  that  I  am? 

MARIE.      Oh,  then  I  shouldn't  laugh  at  you. 

LEOPOLD.  What  proof  do  you  want,  if  all  I  have  given  you 
are  not  enough? 

MARIE.      What  proof  —  ?  —  Oh,  —  I  don't  know 

LEOPOLD.  But  —  you  —  you've  completely  changed  me. 
What  all  the  arguments  of  my  family  have  failed  to  accomplish, 
you  have  done  —  a  single  look  from  you  did  the  work.  If  you 
knew  what  a  useless  sort  of  fellow  I  was  before  I  met  you,  you 
would  be  very  proud  of  your  influence  over  me.  You  don't 
think  that's  much,  do  you?  I  beg  to  differ.  No  matter  how 
humble  the  creature,  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  have  brought  it 
into  being  —  and  this  creature  is  of  your  own  making.  You 
have  made  a  new  man  of  me. 

MARIE.      In  any  event  I  have  done  you  a  good  turn. 

LfiOPOLD.  [^Sitting  near  her2  One  that  will  make  me  un- 
happy forever,  if  you  refuse  to  love  me.  Oh,  my  dear  Maia! 
Don't  despise  your  work  —  finish  it  —  you  can  with  a  single 
word. 

MARIE.      Are  you  then  really  serious? 

LEOPOLD.      Very! 

Marie.  My  dear  friend,  you  are  out  of  your  mind! 
What  would  your  mother  say  if  she  heard  you? 

LEOPOLD.  She  doesn't,  and  she  shan't!  I'll  hide  my 
happiness  from  her,  from  the  whole  world!  [^MARIE  listens  to 
the  rest  of  what  LEOPOLD  says,  with  downcast  eyes,  her  eyebrows 
contracted^  Oh,  Maia!  This  union,  so  free,  so  mysterious! 
Think  of  the  joy  of  overriding  the  silly  conventions  and 
prejudices  of  society  —  to  belong  to  one  another  —  What  a 
dream!  Say  that  one  word,  dearest,  and  my  life  is  yours! 
\^He  kneels  at  herfeet^ 

MARIE.  [Jrritated,  rising  ahruptly~\  Stand  up!  [LEOPOLD 
gets  up.  She  loo\s  at  him  for  an  instant,  and  shrugs  her  shoulders^ 
You  are  foolish,  poor  Leopold!      And  we  were  such  good  friends! 

LEOPOLD.      Sh!      Father! 


198  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

Enter  FOURCHAMBAULT.  a  Idler  in  his  hand. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  there!  Good!  I  want  you  to 
saddle  your  horse. 

LEOPOLD.      But  I've  just  been  riding. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Ride  again.  Secret  errand.  Take  this 
letter  to  Ingouville,  give  it  to  the  proper  person,  and  wait  for 
an  answer. 

LEOPOLD.  Very  well.  Papa.  {_Asicle\  She  made  a  face, 
then!      \Jie  goes  out  at  the  bacl{} 

MARIE.      [|y45f</e]]      It  was  bound  to  come  to  that! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Rubbing  his  hands'}  Reforms,  my  dear 
Maia,  reforms!  My  wife  is  more  eager  for  them  than  I.  Ber- 
nard has  only  to  suggest.  What  a  man,  my  dear!  What  a 
man! 

MARIE.  Then  I  leave  you  in  safe  hands.  I  go  with  no 
misgivings. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Are  you  thinking  of  leaving  us  ? 

MARIE.      I  must;   the  sooner  the  better. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Because  we  are  forced  to  economise? 

MARIE.      No,  my  friend,  but  I  must  think  of  my  future. 

BERNARD  appears  at  the  back- 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [_Not  seeing  BERNARD]  We'll  see  to 
getting  you  a  situation. 

BERNARD.  {^Advancing,  to  FOURCHAMBAULT]  Good! 
[To  marie]      It's  found! 

MARIE.  [^Rising}  Thank  you!  It  couldn't  have  hap- 
pened at  a  better  time! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Ungrateful! 

MARIE.      No,  not  ungrateful,  but  reasonable  and  resolute! 

BERNARD.      But  you  must  leave  France  —  go  to  England. 

MARIE.      [^Surprised}      Is  it  so  advantageous,  then? 

BERNARD.  I  should  not  have  mentioned  it  if  I  weren't 
quite  sure  I  was  putting  you  into  the  hands  of  an  exceptionally 
good  and  honourable  family.      I  have  not  relied  merely  on 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  199 

hearsay,  I  myself  have  investigated.  I  have  been  talking  things 
over  with  Sir  John  Sunter  for  the  past  week 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      The  owner  of  the  yacht? 

BERNARD.      \^Smiling2      I  am  the  owner  of  the  yacht. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  You  buy  yachts  then?  Just  like  my 
wife?      What  the  devil's  the  use  of  that? 

BERNARD.  So  far  it  has  served  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  Sir  John  Sunter. 

MARIE.      How  obliging  you  are,  M.  Bernard! 

BERNARD.  I  shall  also  be  in  a  position  to  visit  Brighton 
from  time  to  time,  and  see  whether  our  little  friend  likes  her 
young  pupils. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Ah!  Personally,  I  am  subject  to  sea- 
sickness, but  I  hope  you'll  take  me  along  occasionally. 

MARIE.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  dear  kind  friends!  You 
give  me  courage  to  go  into  exile.      When  must  I  give  my  answer? 

BERNARD.  You  have  twenty -four  hours  to  think  the  matter 
over. 

MARIE.      I  shall  consider  it  well. 

BERNARD.  And  now,  M.  Fourchambault!  [^o  MARIE, 
who  is  about  to  leaveJi  No,  you  may  stay!  —  I  understand  that 
the  Prefect's  son  is  going  to  marry  your  daughter. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Sitting  down  at  the  table]  That's  so: 
I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Pardon  me,  but  so  many  things  have  been 
happening  since  yesterday 

BERNARD.      You  approve  of  this  marriage? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Well  —  yes  and  no. 

MARIE.  [^Seated  to  the  left  of  the  table]  Mme.  Fourcham- 
bault is  very  much  attached  to  the  idea. 

BERNARD.  [^Sitting  down  opposite  FOURCHAMBAULT]  And 
you  are  going  to  sacrifice  your  daughter  for  the  sake  of  your  wife's 
vanity? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  friend,  but  really 
—  do  you  pretend  to  be  more  interested  in  my  daughter  than 
either  my  wife  or  myself? 

BERNARD.      I  have  no  right,  of  course,  but  my  duty  requires 


200  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

me  to  think  of  a  splendid  young  man  whom  this  marriage  will 
drive  to  despair. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.     Who  is  that? 

BERNARD.      My  associate,  Victor  Chauvet. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.       I  thought  he  was  in  Calcutta? 

MARIE.      He  arrived  here  yesterday. 

BERNARD.  And  that  was  the  news  he  received  when  he 
landed.  He  came  to  me  this  morning,  heart-broken,  and  told 
me  —  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  I  was  deeply  grieved  to  see 
him  sobbing.  He  loves  your  daughter,  and  I  know  he  would 
make  her  happy. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I'm  sure  he  would!  But  my  wife 
won't  listen  to  it!  She  is  the  one  who  supplies  the  dowry,  you 
seel 

BERNARD.  But  Chauvet  asks  for  nothing  —  he'll  take  her 
without  a  dowry 

MARIE.  [^Standing  behind  the  table,  to  FOURCHAMBAULT] 
Without  a  dowry! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  That's  a  possible  solution,  but  — no! 
Blanche  loves  the  little  Baron! 

BERNARD.  Impossible!  Victor  felt  sure  when  he  left  that 
she  loved  him,  and  Victor  is  no  fool.  Influence  was  doubtless 
brought  to  bear  on  the  little  girl  —  the  baronetcy  was  dangled 
before  her  eyes 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      I  can't  do  anything! 

BERNARD.  No,  but  you  can  at  least  lay  the  truth  before 
her,  so  that  afterward  she  will  have  no  reason  to  blame  you 
for  being  an  accomplice  of  her  mother  in  this  regrettable  marriage. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Really,  I  am  —  you  say  things  I  should 
never  have  thought  of. 

MARIE,      Think  now,  then! 

BERNARD.      It's  high  time! 

Enter  BLANCHE. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^o  BERNARD]  Here  she  is  — you 
speak  to  her  I 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  201 

BERNARD.      [^Rising]     If  you  like.  — Mademoiselle  Blanche? 

BLANCHE.      Monsieur? 

BERNARD.      Do  you  really  love  that  little  Rastiboulois? 

BLANCHE.  I  think  that  hardly  concerns  you.  \Jjomg  to  her 
father]      Why  should  he  meddle  in  this  affair? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Speak  to  him  as  to  our  best  friend.  Do 
you  love  your  fiance? 

MARIE.      Can  she? 

BLANCHE.  Love  is  not  Indispensable.  As  marriage  Is  the 
only  thing  open  to  a  young  lady,  it  makes  very  little  difference 
who  the  husband  happens  to  be.  The  career  of  baroness  is 
rather  attractive  to  me. 

BERNARD.  [^Ironically]  And  the  career  of  an  honest 
woman  is  not? 

BLANCHE.  Is  It  Impossible  then  to  be  an  honest  woman 
and  a  baroness  at  the  same  time? 

MARIE.      No,  if  the  lady  loves  the  baron;   otherwise 

BERNARD.  But  there  are  ninety-nine  chances  out  of  a 
hundred  that  she  doesn't  —  and  then  —  pftt! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Monsieur  Bernard! 

BERNARD.      Yes? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  My  friend,  you  shouldn't  speak  of  such 
things  before  young  ladies! 

BERNARD      I  should  like  to  know  why  not? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  It's  not  hard  to  see  you  have  no 
sister! 

BERNARD.  Heavens  and  earth!  If  I  had,  I  should  see 
to  it  that  she  knew  what  she  was  doing  in  becoming  engaged! 
I  hardly  think  I  should  make  a  delicate  and  dainty  masterpiece 
of  her,  by  respecting  the  flower  of  Ignorance  while  I  kept  from 
her  all  she  ought  to  know!  I  should  preach  to  her  the  law  of 
love,  pure,  natural  love,  which  should  go  hand  in  hand  with 
marriage:  the  social  law.  I  should  say  to  her:  "Try  to  be 
happy  In  order  to  remain  honest,  for  happiness  is  half  of  virtue. 
Since  a  romance  is  necessary  In  a  woman's  life,  make  your 
husband  the  hero." 


202  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

BLANCHE.      But  I'm  not  at  all  romantic. 

MARIE.  At  eighteen?  You  must  have  been  severely 
frost-bitten!      [^She  makes  BLANCHE  sit  down  on  a  chair,  lefQ 

BERNARD.  [lo  MARIE]  That's  how  it  is  in  France, 
Mademoiselle!  The  young  people  affect  materialism;  they 
blush  at  being  fanciful  or  romantic! 

MARIE.      So  much  the  worse  for  them! 

BERNARD.  So  much  the  worse,  yes.  The  romance  that 
is  right,  founded  on  reason,  is  the  ideal  which  is  founded  on  truth 
—  you  come  to  realise  that  as  you  grow  older. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Alas! 

BERNARD.  [To  FOURCHAMBAULT]  What  amuses  me  is 
the  way  young  ladies  seem  indignant  at  fortune-hunters. 

BLANCHE.      But  aren't  they  right? 

BERNARD.  Yes,  but  they  go  about  it  the  wrong  way.  Now, 
the  young  ladies  are  really  as  interested  as  the  men  —  that  is 
evident.  Marriage  for  money  or  marriage  for  pride,  it  is  always 
marriage  for  a  motive  of  self-interest.  Fortune-hunters  or 
title-hunters  —  what's  the  difference? 

MARIE.  [_To  the  right  of  BLANCHE,  with  one  hand  on  the  hack 
of  her  chair^  If  you  really  thought  about  this,  I  am  sure  your 
heart  could  not  but  agree. 

BERNARD.  [lo  the  left  of  BLANCHE,  with  one  hand  on  the 
cAarr]      Why  don't  you  think  about  it? 

MARIE.  If  you  don't  insist  on  having  a  husband  you  love, 
you  surely  cannot  insist  on  his  loving  you  ?  Are  you  ready  to 
accept  a  life  without  tenderness  and  affection?  Can  you  bear 
the  thought  of  intimacy  with  a  stranger?  Doesn't  the  bare  idea 
revolt  you? 

BERNARD.  How  sweet  it  must  be  to  live  in  peace  and  secur- 
ity under  the  protection  of  a  master  who  makes  himself  your 
slave! 

IVIARIE.  And  to  protect  him  against  the  discouragements  of 
life! 

BERNARD.  Give  him  children  who  will  carry  on  your 
existence  in  their  own? 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  203 

MARIE.  And  from  whom  will  arise  a  second  love  for  you 
both! 

BERNARD.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Blanche,  marriage  is  the 
basest  of  human  institutions,  when  it  is  merely  the  union  of  two 
fortunes. 

MARIE.  And  the  greatest  of  divine  institutions  when  it  is 
the  union  of  two  souls. 

MARIE'S  eyes  meet  the  glance  of  BERNARD.       They  both  look  (iu)ay, 
confused  and  silent. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Take  their  advice,  child!  And  take 
your  old  father's.  —  There  is  a  young  man  here  who  loves  you. 

BLANCHE.      \_Quickly  rising]^      Has  he  come  back? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Yesterday.  He  told  the  whole  story 
to  Bernard  this  morning  —  between  sobs! 

BLANCHE.      Poor  boy! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  He  doesn't  want  your  money!  He  is 
willing  to  marry  you  without  a  dowry,  if  your  mother  refuses  to 
give  you  one. 

BLANCHE.      She  needn't,  then!      That  would  be  much  better! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      But  we  must  at  least  have  her  consent. 

BLANCHE.  That  will  be  hard  to  get,  but  M.  Bernard  can 
help  us!  {To  BERNARD]  You'll  help  us,  won't  you,  to 
convert  Mamma? 

BERNARD.  {Affectionately^  If  you  are  converted,  that  is 
all  that  will  be  necessary.  I'll  go  now  and  tell  my  mother,  she 
is  very  much  interested.  As  to  Mme.  Fourchambault,  she  will 
doubtless,  and  on  good  grounds,  feel  that  I  have  somewhat 
overstepped  the  bounds  of  simple  partnership.  Your  father 
must  discuss  the  matter  with  her. 

BLANCHE.      {To  her  father^      Have  you  the  courage? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Have  I?  Good  Lord!  When  -my 
daughter's  happiness  is  at  stake,  no  woman  shall  make  me 
swerve  a  hair's  breadth! 

BERNARD.  Good,  then  you  will  see  to  getting  Mme.  Four- 
chambault's  consent? 


204  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Leave  that  to  me! 

BERNARD.       I'll    get    back    to    work    then.     [To    MARIE] 
You'll  have  your  answer  ready  to-morrow,  then,  Mademoiselle? 
MARIE.      Yes,  Monsieur. 

BERNARD  goes  out. 

BLANCHE.  Now  —  do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  if 
Mamma  refuses  to  consent?  I'm  going  quietly  to  the  altar — 
city-hall,  that  is  —  and  after  the  mayor  has  made  his  pretty  little 
sermon,  I'm  going  to  speak  out  in  my  clearest  voice:  No,  no,  no! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  That's  an  idea!  Perhaps  that's  the 
best  way  out  of  the  difficulty 

BLANCHE.  Don't  you  think  so?  Then  you  won't  have  to 
face  Mamma!    [_To  MARIE]      He's  afraid  already. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Little  stu  pid,  you ! 

BLANCHE.  Not  so  stupid  as  you  think.  —  Do  you  want  us 
to  stay  with  you  and  support  you? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  Oh,  not  at  all;  you  would  only  be  in  the 
way.  The  conference  may  be  a  bit  stormy  —  children  should 
be  out  of  the  way  on  such  occasions.  There's  your  mother 
now!      Run  off. 

BLANCHE.      Very  well,  Papa.      [^TheygoouQ 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  be  an  hour 
older.  —  But,  courage!  —  Here  she  is  —  The  devil!  She  seems 
to  be  in  a  bad  humour. 

Enter  MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT,  in  a  rage,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      What's  the  matter,  dear? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      [^Handing  him  the  letter']    Read! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      From  the  Prefect? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  A  messenger  just  brought  it. — 
Read  it! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  l^Reading]  "Madame,  I  have  braved 
public  opinion  so  long  as  I  believed  that  it  was  based  only  on 
lies.  It  was  too  painful  to  believe  that  you  would  tolerate  a 
liaison  under  your  own  roof,  and  of  which  your  son  was  a  party. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  205 

After  your  confidences  of  last  night,  you  will  realise  — "    What 
confidences? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.    How  do  I  know?      Go  on. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  [^Reading]  "You  will  realise  that  a 
union  between  our  families  has  become  impossible."  —  Then  it's 
broken  off? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      The  good-for-nothing! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Then  Blanche  is  definitely  thrown  over? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Definitely. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.     And  will  be  very  hard  to  marry  off! 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  There  is  only  one  further  pos- 
sibility: M.  Chauvet. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      Chauvet? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Of  course:  Chauvet!  He  landed 
only  yesterday;  my  maid  saw  him  this  morning.  Run  now  at 
once  and  tell  M.  Bernard  that  I  consent  to  give  my  daughter  to 
his  protege. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      You?     You?     What  about  me? 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.      Have  you  changed  your  mind? 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      No,  but 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  Then  let's  have  no  objections. 
There's  not  a  minute  to  lose:  I  want  the  news  of  this  engagement 
to  be  made  public  the  moment  people  hear  of  the  breaking-off 
of  the  other  —  understand?  We'll  think  about  Mile.  Letellier 
afterward. 

FOURCHAMBAULT.      She's  been  offered  a  situation  in  England. 

MME.  FOURCHAMBAULT.  That's  good!  Let  her  accept, 
the  sooner  the  better.  —  Now,  run  off  to  M.  Bernard.  I'll 
prepare  Blanche  for  her  required  change  of  attitude.  \^As  she  is 
about  to  go  out,  left^  Run!  [_Aside,  as  she  goes  outJi  Run, 
weathercock! 

FOURCHAMBAULT.  That  wasn't  very  hard!  —  When  you're 
dealing  with  women,  you  have  merely  to  know  how  to  handle 
them! 

CURTAIN 


206  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 


ACT  V 

SCENE:  —  Same  as  in  Act  II.  MME.  BERNARD  is  sitting  on  a 
sofa,  left,  knitting  a  child's  stocking.  BERNARD  enters  at 
back  a  moment  later. 

BERNARD.  [^Throwing  his  hat  down  with  impatience^  Curse 
it! 

MME.  BERNARD.      What's  the  matter? 

BERNARD.  Oh  —  it  was  only  to  be  expected:  Mile.  Letellier 
is  in  a  bad  situation. 

MME.  BERNARD.      Bad? 

BERNARD.  The  whole  town  is  talking  about  her.  It  seems 
that  last  night,  at  the  reception  at  the  Prefecture,  the  Rasti- 
boulois'  officially  announced  their  breaking-off  with  the  Four- 
chambaults,  and  managed  to  whisper  it  about  that  it  was  quite 
impossible  to  marry  a  young  lady  brought  up  in  a  home  the 
morality  of  which  was  at  least  open  to  criticism  —  Where  a 
brother  lived  openly  with  his  mistress,  and  where  a  mother 
brazenly  sanctioned  the  goings-on  —  under  her  very  roof! 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^Rising^  That's  not  possible!  I  can't 
believe  it.      You  too  seem  a  little  too  ready  to 

BERNARD.  But  there  is  no  room  for  doubt,  I  am  sorry  to 
say.  That  fool,  Mme.  Fourchambault,  was  led  to  give  away 
no  end  of  secrets  to  the  Baron:  she  told  him  the  whole  story. 
And  it's  my  fault!  I  should  have  got  Mile.  Letellier  away  from 
that  place  sooner!  I  could  see  she  was  attracted  by  the  little 
ape!  I  relied  too  much  on  her  power  of  resistance,  and  I  took 
too  much  for  granted  with  mother  and  son  —  Well,  the  evil's 
been  done! 

MME.    BERNARD.      What  is  going  to  become  of  her? 

BERNARD.  She  is  going  to  England.  Of  course,  she  hesi- 
tated before  the  prospect  of  that  exile  —  now  she'll  accept  it 
willingly  as  a  means  of  salvation.  The  scandal  won't  touch  her 
when  she's  the  other  side  of  the  Channel;  it'll  die  a  natural  death 
when  she  leaves. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  207 

MME.  BERNARD.      He  must  have  promised  to  marry  her! 

BERNARD.      Yes,  it's  the  tradition  in  that  family! 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  am  sure  the  father  would  have  kept  his 
promise  if  a  loyal  friend  had  only  advised  him,  told  him  of  his 
duties  toward  me. 

BERNARD.      Perhaps  he  would  have! 

MME.  BERNARD.  Wouldn't  you  bless  such  a  friend? 
[^Approaching  her  sori^  Wouldn't  you  have  considered  him  a 
happy  man  who  can  have  saved  a  poor  girl  who  had  been 
seduced? 

BERNARD.      Of  course. 

MME.  BERNARD.  Then,  my  boy,  you  be  that  friend  for 
Marie  and  for  your  brother. 

BERNARD.  \iWith  a  little  laugh']  My  brother!  That's 
true,  he  is!  —  My  brother!  If  you  think  a  man  like  him  would 
consent  to  marry  her!  Do  you  imagine  his  mother  would  let 
him  marry  a  girl  without  a  dowry! 

MME.  BERNARD.      If  that's  the  only  objection 

BERNARD  lool^s  in  astonishment  at  his  mother,  then  sits  down,  his 
eyes  lowered.  —  A  long  silence. 

BERNARD.      [^Taking   his   mother's   hand]     I'll   do  it  — do 
what  you  would  have  liked  done  in  your  own  case. 
MME.  BERNARD.      Thank  you,  dear  boy. 
A  SERVANT.      [^Announcing]    Mile.  Letellier. 
BERNARD.      [Aside]     I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  meet  her! 

Enter  MARIE,  at  the  back.  She  bows  to  MME.  BERNARD,  who 
motions  her  to  a  chair.  She  then  turns,  surprised,  to  BER- 
NARD, who  bows  formally  to  her. 

MARIE.  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye  to  you,  Madame.  I 
have  just  reserved  my  passage  on  a  steamer  leaving  for  He  de 
Bourbon. 

MME.  BERNARD.      Then  you  are  not  going  to  England? 

MARIE.  [Bitterly]  No,  Madame,  Sir  John  Sunter  refuses 
to  take  me. 


208  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

BERNARD.      [^Aside]     Well,  that  was  to  be  expected. 

MME.  BERNARD.      And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  there? 

MARIE.      Who  knows?      God  is  merciful. 

BERNARD.      [^Adoancing^    When  does  the  steamer  leave? 

MARIE.      At  high-tide  this  evening. 

BERNARD.      Wait  for  me  here,      [//e  goes  out] 

MME.  BERNARD.  You  mustn't  give  up  hope,  my  poor 
Marie.      My  son  is  going  to  make  M.  Leopold  keep  his  promise. 

MARIE.      What  promise? 

MME.  BERNARD.      To  marry  you. 

MARIE.  But  he  never  said  a  word  of  that!  1*11  give  him 
credit  for  declaring  that  his  intentions  were  perfectly  dishonour- 
able! 

MME.  BERNARD.      And  in  spite  of  that,  you  are ? 

MARIE.      His  mistress?      So  they  say. 

MME.  BERNARD.      [^Rising]    But  what  do  you  say? 

MARIE.  {^Proudly]  Nothing!  What  is  the  good?  Slander 
is  not  worth  refuting!  One  must  either  crush  it  or  suffer  from  it. 
But  to  defend  oneself  without  sufficient  proofs  of  innocence, 
ask  for  grace  and  not  receive  it,  is  the  worst  of  humiliations.  I 
shall  hold  my  head  high  no  matter  what  happens. 

MME.  BERNARD.  I  know  well  that  fierce  resignation!  — 
That  is  the  pride  of  innocence.  \jShe  draws  MARIE  to  her  arms 
and  holds  her  in  her  embrace]  I  think  I  am  the  only  being  on 
earth  who  can  put  a  stop  to  these  stories.  I  must  give  you 
back  the  honour  you  have  never  really  lost — as  if  you  had! 
Leopold  will  marry  you! 

MARIE.      Marry  me?      But,  Madame,  I  don't  love  him. 

MME.  BERNARD.  You  are  at  least  on  very  friendly  terms 
with  him.  Now  I  don't  propose  a  marriage  of  love,  but  a 
marriage  of  reason,  or  —  rather  —  a  marriage  of  rehabilitation. 

MARIE.  Yes,  I  see:  that  would  bring  honour,  a  great  deal 
more  perhaps  —  maybe  everything!  But  then,  will  Leopold 
consent?      He  owes  me  nothing —  and  —  I  am  poor. 

MME.  BERNARD.  Not  so  poor  as  you  imagine.  To  begin 
with,  you  have  40,000  francs. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  209 

MARIE.      I  must  have  300,000  more. 

MME.  BERNARD.  Wait  a  moment:  you  are  going  to  receive 
an  inheritence. 

MARIE.      I?      From  whom? 

MME.  BERNARD.  [^ConfusetQ  Or  —  a  —  donation  —  I 
don't  exactly  know.  My  son  has  just  received  word  —  he's 
gone  to  tell  M.  Leopold. 

MARIE.  []W^i7A  a  sad  smile^  A  donation!  —  Here  are  a 
mother  and  son  who  love  me  as  they  would  their  own  daughter. 
You  have  hearts  of  gold!  You  are  so  tender,  so  generous  to 
me!      May  God  give  you  all  the  happiness  He  has  refused  me! 

Enter  BERNARD. 

MME.  BERNARD.  Back  so  soon?  You  haven't  found  him, 
then? 

BERNARD.  No,  he  left  this  morning,  but  I  left  a  message 
for  him,  asking  him  to  come  here  as  soon  as  he  returns.  He 
was  expected  back  any  moment,  I  was  told. 

MARIE.  I  know.  Monsieur  Bernard,  all  you  want  to  do  for 
me.  I  am  very  grateful.  You  believe  I  am  guilty,  but  if 
your  plan  succeeds,  you  will  see  that  I  am  not  unworthy  of 
your  fatherly  interest. 

BERNARD.  Fatherly,  yes.  But  you  may  be  sure  my  plan 
will  succeed.      I  promise. 

MARIE.      Heaven  grant  it! 

BERNARD.      \^Aside]     I'll  pay! 

MME.  BERNARD.      Someone's  coming  up-stairs. 

MARIE.       It's  Leopold. 

BERNARD.  \^Asidi]  She  recognizes  his  step!  —  Well,  if 
you  will  both  leave  me ? 

MME.  BERNARD.  Come,  Marie.  \^They  go  out,  left.  The 
door  at  the  bacl^^  opens^ 

A  SERVANT.      [^Announcmg]    M.  Leopold  Fourchambault. 

Enter  LEOPOLD. 


210  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

LEOPOLD.  I  returned  just  a  moment  after  you  left.  I 
came  at  once,  Monsieur. 

BERNARD.  Thank  you.  You  are  doubtless  aware  of  what 
occurred  last  night  at  the  Prefecture? 

LEOPOLD.  It  was  on  that  account  that  I  went  out  so  early 
this  morning.  A  friend  of  mine  told  me  everything  last  night. 
I  got  up  at  sunrise  —  everything  is  now  arranged.  The  gossips 
are  now  on  our  side. 

BERNARD.      Everything  arranged? 

LEOPOLD.  Oh,  when  something  must  be  done,  I  waste  no 
time.  By  six  I  was  at  Victor  Chauvet's.  There's  a  man  for 
you!  He  wants  to  shoulder  the  responsibility  for  the  whole 
affair,  simply  because  he  believes  he  ought  to  marry  my  sister. 
I  told  him  three  women  were  compromised,  of  whom  two  were 
no  concern  of  his  —  but  he  made  no  objection.  There's  a 
brother-in-law  after  my  own  heart!  If  I  owe  all  this  to  you, 
I  want  to  thank  you. 

BERNARD.      Well,  then? 

LEOPOLD.  By  seven,  Victor  saw  young  Rastiboulois;  by 
eight,  the  principals  and  seconds  met;  by  ten  we  were  on  the 
field.  I  must  give  the  little  Baron  credit  for  being  equal  to  the 
occasion  —  would  have  made  a  very  passable  brother-in-law  on 
that  score!  —  By  five  minutes  past  ten,  the  Baron  received  a 
sword-thrust  which  will  confine  him  to  his  bed  for  a  good  two 
weeks.  By  eleven,  I  was  lunching  with  the  seconds  —  friend 
Victor  has  a  capital  appetite!  I'm  going  to  invite  myself  often 
to  dinner.  By  noon,  we  were  back  in  Le  Havre — compliments 
from  friends  —  I  return  home,  find  your  note,  and  —  here  I  am. 
Have  I  wasted  my  morning? 

BERNARD.  And  do  you  think  everything  is  arranged 
now? 

LEOPOLD.  [^Siiting  on  the  sofa]  Wait  till  you  see  which  way 
public  opinion  will  go!  Nothing  like  a  sword-thrust  at  the 
proper  time!  The  Rastiboulois,  won't  be  able  to  live  in  the 
town!  I'll  wager  that  in  a  week,  the  Prefect  will  ask  to  be 
transferred.  —  It's  very  amusing. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  211 

BERNARD.  [^Sitling  on  a  chair  near  the  sofa^  And  what  is 
to  become  of  Mile.  Marie  Letellier? 

LEOPOLD.       Isn't  she  going  to  England? 

BERNARD.  No,  Monsieur.  The  scandal  in  which  she  was 
involved  has  prevented  her  making  a  living.  Sir  John  Sunter 
will  not  take  her. 

LfiOPOLD.  The  poor  girl!  This  is  too  bad!  What  can  be 
done? 

BERNARD.      Think. 

LEOPOLD.  Could  she  be  made  to  accept  —  very  delicately 
? 

BERNARD.  Money?  She  has  lost  her  good  name;  that 
must  be  restored  to  her. 

LEOPOLD.  But  my  dear  Monsieur,  I  cannot  restore  what  I 
have  never  taken. 

BERNARD.      I  am  not  asking  for  confidences.  Monsieur. 

LEOPOLD.  It  would  be  less  indiscreet  than  to  ask  for  what 
you  have  just  asked.      I  take  it  that  you  want  me  to  marry  her. 

BERNARD.      That  is  about  it. 

LEOPOLD.  [^Rising^  Does  your  partnership  include  the 
treatment  of  such  questions? 

BERNARD.  No,  Monsieur,  but  I  have  a  deep  interest  in 
Mile.  Letellier. 

LEOPOLD.  I  am  well  aware  of  that  —  you  can  refuse  her 
nothing. 

BERNARD.      I  consider  myself  in  a  way  her  father. 

LEOPOLD.      Then  you're  a  judge  of  the  assizes? 

BERNARD.       I  don't  understand. 

LEOPOLD.      Never  mind. 

BERNARD.  [^Rising^  Whether  or  not  she  is  your  mistress 
is  no  affair  of  mine.  I  do  know  however  that  her  good  name  is 
lost  through  your  fault;  she  is  no  longer  able  to  make  a  living. 
She  was  your  guest,  under  the  protection  of  your  family;  you 
owe  her  reparation.  Marriage  is  the  only  possible  reparation 
you  can  make.  —  That  is  what  I  know. 

LEOPOLD.      If  you  had  done  a  little  less  navigating,  Monsieur, 


212  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

you  would  know  that  there  sometimes  arise  certain  situations 
for  which  no  one  is  responsible  —  these  situations  are  false  in 
and  by  themselves.  Teachers,  companions,  governesses  l^A 
gesture  from  BERNARD^,  it's  all  the  same:  they're  all  unfortunate 
girls,  objects  of  suspicion  merely  because  there  happens  to  be  a 
young  man  in  the  house. 

BERNARD.  [fi/«er/j/]  Yes,  I  know:  work,  which  is  man's 
glory,  makes  a  declassee  of  woman.  The  world  is  ever  on  its 
guard  against  a  woman  who  wants  to  make  an  honest  living. 
Her  path  is  difficult,  and  all  of  society  is  waiting  to  see  her  make 
a  false  step 

LEOPOLD.      Well,  she  is  certainly  on  a  dangerous  path! 

BERNARD.  \^Angrily2  For  those  who  descend,  not  for  those 
who  ascend!  She  ascends!  You  should  respect  and  help  her, 
encourage  her.  But  no!  You  despise  her,  and  wait  for  her  to 
fall!  Help  her  to,  even!  When  she  falls,  no  one  turns  to  give 
her  a  helping  hand.      That's  your  justice! 

LEOPOLD.  It  may  not  be  just,  but  it  simply  is  so.  / 
haven't  compromised  Maia:   it's  her  situation. 

BERNARD.  [^Restraining  himself^  Do  you  deny  having 
made  advances  to  her? 

LEOPOLD.      Of  course  you  are  asking  for  no  confidences? 

BERNARD.      Well,  do  you  love  her  —  yes  or  no? 

LEOPOLD.      I  love  her  —  in  a  way. 

BERNARD.  Enough  to  marry  her?  Or  will  you  wait 
until  you  find  someone  else,  whom  perhaps  you  won't  love 
so  well,  but  who  will  bring  you  200,000  or  300.000  francs' 
dowry! 

LEOPOLD.      [Bowing']     I  prefer  300,000. 

BERNARD.      Well,  Mile.  Letellier  has  them. 

LEOPOLD.  Where  did  they  come  from?  If  I'm  not  indis- 
creet? 

BERNARD.  I  have  told  you  that  I  consider  myself  in  a  way 
as  her  father. 

LEOPOLD.  [Ironically]  Rather  young  father!  My  com- 
pliments, Monsieur!      Royal,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  ancient 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  213 

monarchy!  But  we  simple  bourgeois  have  certain  scruples  and 
cannot  accept  such  dowries. 

BERNARD.  {^Outraged^  You  think  so?  No,  you  don't 
beHeve  a  word  of  it. 

LEOPOLD.  In  what  capacity  would  you  furnish  Mile. 
Letellier  with  a  dowry? 

BERNARD.  Ha!  Ha!  You  stick  at  that  —  your  honour  is 
involved?  I  recognize  your  blood!  You  are  the  grandson  of 
your  grandfather! 

LEOPOLD.      I  flatter  myself! 

BERNARD.      Don't  mention  it,  Monsieur. 

LEOPOLD.      You  mean ? 

BERNARD.  That  your  grandfather  was  a  blackguardly 
slanderer. 

LEOPOLD.      Repeat  that! 

BERNARD.  The  lowest  of  blackguards!  —  [LEOPOLD  throws 
his  glove  m  BERNARD'S  face;  BERNARD  utters  a  cry,  is  about  to 
throw  himself  on  LEOPOLD,  when  he  stops  himself,  wringing  his 
hands']     It  is  lucky  for  you  that  you  are  my  brother! 

LEOPOLD.  Your  brother!  Are  you  —  can — ?  You  are 
the  son  of  the  piano-teacher?  Well,  that  needn't  prevent  our 
fighting.  I  know  the  story,  and  I  am  able  to  certify  that  you 
haven't  a  drop  of  our  blood  in  your  veins. 

BERNARD.  There,  that  is  your  grandfather's  crime!  You're 
perpetuating  it!  During  the  past  three  days,  I  have  been  able 
to  give  the  lie  to  the  miserable  slanders  circulated  by  your  grand- 
father: according  to  my  mother's  wishes,  I  have  saved  your 
father  from  bankruptcy  —  your  father  and  my  father! 

LEOPOLD,  ^/n  astonishment]  According  to  your  mother's 
wishes ? 

BERNARD.  Yes,  Monsieur,  she  still  has  some  respect  for 
the  honour  of  the  family  which  took  so  little  care  of  hers.  —  I 
assumed  complete  charge  of  you  all  when  you  were  in  trouble, 
I  have  now  restored  your  house  to  order:  material  and  moral; 
I  have  saved  your  sister,  who  is  my  sister,  from  a  fearful  marriage 
—  all  according  to  the  wishes  of  my  mother.     And  now  I  have 


214  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

just  been  struck  in  the  face  by  you,  and  I  have  not  struck  back, 
so  sure  am  I  that  we  are  both  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood.  Now 
what  do  you  say? 

LEOPOLD.  That  your  mother  is  the  noblest  of  women  —  that 
it  is  true  the  same  blood  flows  in  our  veins  —  that  in  striking  you 
I  struck  myself.  —  Forgive  me,  brother! 

BERNARD.  [^Pointing  to  his  cAceJ^]  Efface  it.  [LEOPOLD 
throws  himself  into  BERNARD'S  arms^  Now  are  you  willing  for 
me  to  give  Marie  her  dowry? 

LEOPOLD.  Yes,  brother.  —  Oh,  what  a  small  imitation  I 
seem  beside  you!  But  you  will  make  me  worthy  of  you,  edu- 
cate, encourage  me — There's  some  good  in  me,  you'll  see 

BERNARD.  Now  I  am  sure  of  it.  —  Let  us  treat  one  another 
as  brothers  in  private,  but  before  the  world  we  must  appear  only 
as  friends.  Don't  say  a  word  of  what  you  have  just  found  out, 
you  understand?      Even  to  your  father! 

LEOPOLD.      Shall  he  never  know,  then? 

BERNARD.  Never.  You  will  realize  how  important  silence 
is  when  you  know  that  I  have  renounced  marriage  and  family 
life,  everything  that  I  love,  to  keep  my  secret  —  my  mother's 
secret,  rather. 

LEOPOLD.  [Warmly  grasping  his  hanf\  I  understand. 
Rely  on  me. 

SERVANT.      [Announcing]    Mile.   Blanche  Fourchambault. 

LEOPOLD.      [Aside  to  BERNARD]     My  sister!  —  Our  sister! 

BERNARD.  [Aside  to  LEOPOLD]  Sh!  [To  the  SERVANT] 
Ask  my  mother  and  Mile.  Letellier  to  come  in.  [The  SERVANT 
goes  out,  left] 

Enter  BLANCHE,  at  the  back,  Just  as  BERNARD  is  speaking. 

LfiOPOLD.  [Assuming  an  air  of  severity]  You  hardly  ex- 
pected to  see  me  here,  did  you,  Mademoiselle? 

BLANCHE.  On  the  contrary:  I  have  come  to  see  you.  I 
want  to  say  something  while  M.  Bernard  is  present;  he  will 
certainly  support  me. 

LEOPOLD.      Go  on. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT  215 

BLANCHE.  Well,  I  think  that  as  you  have  compromised 
Maia  it  is  your  duty  to  marry  her. 

LfiOPOLD.  Do  you  believe  that? 

BLANCHE.  So  does  Papa. 

LfiOPOLD.  And  Mamma? 

BLANCHE.  Not  yet,  but  we'll  bring  her  around,  if  M. 
Bernard  will  help  us. 

LEOPOLD.  He  has  helped  us  so  well  that  there  is  no  longer 
any  objection. 

BLANCHE.  Monsieur  Bernard,  you  are  our  Providence. 

LEOPOLD.  Then  kiss  him. 

BLANCHE.  [Emhracing  BERNARD  impetuously]  With  all 
my  heart! 

BERNARD.  [_Aside  to  LEOPOLD,  grasping  his  hand]     Thank 

^°"'  Enter  MARIE  and  MME.  BERNARD. 

BLANCHE.      How  glad  I  am,  Maia  —  sister! 

MARIE.      You  have  succeeded,  then.  Monsieur  Bernard? 

BERNARD.  I  have  the  honour  to  ask  for  your  hand  on  behalf 
of  my  friend  Leopold. 

MARIE.  Heaven  be  praised!  I  was  afraid  you  might  fail! 
Well,  I  refuse. 

LEOPOLD.      What? 

BLANCHE.      Oh! 

MARIE.      I  refuse. 

MME.  BERNARD.      What? 

MARIE.       I  refuse. 

BERNARD.  But  just  now  you  seemed  to  accept  it  with 
gratitude! 

MARIE.  Yes,  because  it  constituted  the  only  possible  justi- 
fication for  me:  my  refusal.  If  I  don't  love  Monsieur  enough 
to  marry  him,  who  will  believe  I  once  loved  him  enough  to  be- 
come his  mistress? 

MME.  BERNARD.      No  one,  eh,  Bernard? 
,     BERNARD.      No  one! 

MARIE.  And  now,  good-bye.  Defend  me,  after  I  am  gone. 
Good-bye,  Madame —  I  shall  never  forget  your  goodness;   you 


216  THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCHAMBAULT 

have  been  like  a  mother  to  me.  —  Good-bye,  Leopold:  don't 
look  that  way,  now!  I  have  more  affection  for  you  than  you 
had  for  me.  Let's  be  good  friends  in  separating.  Good-bye, 
dear  little  Blanche.  You  have  called  me  sister;  I  shan't  forget 
that.  —  Good-bye,  M.  Bernard 

BERNARD.      Good-bye,  Mademoiselle. 

BLANCHE.  [^Sobbing]  I  don't  want  you  to  leave.  Why 
don't  you  marry  my  brother,  since  you  like  him? 

LEOPOLD.      Because  she  loves  someone  else  I 

MARIE.      Leopold! 

BLANCHE.      Whom? 

LEOPOLD.  A  blind  man,  who  chooses  not  to  see,  a  deaf  man, 
who  will  not  hear,  a  timid  man  who  thinks  he  is  not  young  or 
handsome  enough  to  be  loved,  an  idiot  who  tries  to  force  her  into 
the  arms  of  another,  who  offers  to  give  her  a  dowry 

MARIE.      Leopold.  —  It's  not  true,  M.  Bernard! 

BERNARD.  [^Falling  into  a  chair,  his  face  in  his  hands^  I 
know  it  only  too  well.  Mademoiselle! 

MME.  BERNARD.      [^Pointing  to  him—  To  MARIE]     Marie! 

MARIE,  [ro  BERNARD]  What  if  —  if  it  were  true?  What 
if  —  as  I  am  about  to  leave  —  my  heart  — ?  All  my  friendship, 
affection,  gratitude  —  can  it  be  that  they  were  really  —  another 
feeling,  a  different  sentiment?      Here  —  my  hand ! 

BERNARD.  [^Confusedly']  Mademoiselle  —  Marie  —  [Aside 
to  his  mother]    No,  it  can't  be! 

MME.  BERNARD.  [To  her  sori]  She  has  suffered  enough  to 
understand 

BERNARD.      [Aside  to  his  mother]    That's  true! 

MME.  BERNARD.      Try! 

BERNARD.      [Taking  MARIE'S  hands  in  his  own]     Marie! 

BLANCHE.  [To  LEOPOLD]  Then  she  won't  be  our  sister- 
in-law? 

LEOPOLD.  There's  not  much  changed!  Hasn't  Bernard 
been  more  than  a  brother  to  us? 

BLANCHE.      That's  so. 

LEOPOLD.      [Kissing    MME.    BERNARD'S    hand]    Madame, 

I  too  love  you  I  ^,  ,„.,..,», 

^  CURTAIN 


THE  POST-SCRIPT 

[le  post-scriptum] 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

M.  DE  LANCY 
MME.  DE  VERLI£RE 
A  SERVANT 

SCENE:  —  Paris. 

TIME:  —  The  present. 


THE  POST-SCRIPT 

SCENE:  —  An  elegantly  furnished  room.  There  are  two  entrances 
at  the  back;  ^^  ^he  right,  a  fireplace ;  centre,  a  table.  As  the 
curtain  rises,  MME.  DE  VERLIERE  is  discovered  wearing  a 
loose  gown,  seated  by  the  fire-place,  cutting  the  leaves  of  a 
book-     M.  DE  LANCY  enters  a  moment  later,  right. 

LANCY.  [^At  the  thresholcQ  I  beg  your  pardon,  neighbour, 
it's  I.  Please  don't  scold  your  maid  —  she  kept  telling  me  you 
were  at  home  to  no  one.  But  I  told  her  that  a  landlord  was 
no  one:  that  argument  succeeded.      Now,  must  I  go? 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.      It's  very  lucky  that  it  is  you! 

LANCY.      Is  the  book  so  very  interesting? 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  I  don't  know,  I'm  only  cutting  it. 
Now  you  are  here,  my  dear  Lancy,  you  may  wait  with  me. 
That's  what  I  am  doing. 

LANCY.  [^Noticing  that  her  hair  is  powderef}  Who?  Oh, 
the  Carnival? 

MME.  DE  VERLIEIRE.  Heavens,  no!  I  shouldn't  think  of 
being  powdered  so  early  for  the  ball. 

LANCY.      What  then? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  What  is  the  mystery,  you  think? 
I  can't  keep  secrets  from  you:  well,  I've  had  an  Athenian  Water 
hair-wash  this  morning,  and  I  use  the  powder  to  dry  my  hair. 
Now  are  you  satisfied?  By  the  way,  thank  you  for  your  pres- 
ent.     You  are  the  king  of  hunters  and  a  model  proprietor. 

LANCY.  You  are  possibly  right  as  to  the  first  compliment, 
but  the  second 

MME.  DE  VERLIEIRE.  I'm  already  afraid;  are  you  thinking 
of  raising  my  rent? 

LANCY.      Worse:    lam  going  to  give  you  notice. 


220  THE  POST-SCRIPT 

MME.  DE  VERLI&RE.      Are  you  joking? 

LANCY.  All  my  courage  as  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  the 
world  would  be  insufficient  to  tell  you;  therefore  I  must  speak 
as  a  business  man. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  Could  the  business  man  not  wait 
until  to-morrow? 

LANCY.  Impossible.  According  to  our  contract,  six 
months'  notice  is  required.  Now,  the  fatal  term  expires  to-day; 
to-morrow  you  enter  into  the  next.  I  should  be  very  much 
put  out 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.      You  are  a  frank  hunter. 

LANCY.      Woodsman,  if  you  like! 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      You  go  straight  to  the  point. 

LANCY.      Possibly. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  "Possibly"  is  good!  May  I  know 
the  reason  for  this  —  ejection?  You  must  have  a  reason,  I 
imagine? 

LANCY.  And  an  excellent  one.  Have  you  time  to  listen 
to  me? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  I  might  have.  And  I  confess  I'd 
like  to  find  a  good  excuse  for  you,  for  I'd  be  sorry  to  lose  you. 

LANCY.       I  warn  you,  it's  quite  a  story. 

MME.  DE  VERLlifcRE.  Take  as  much  time  as  you  like  —  if 
you  can't  finish,  you  may  continue  to-morrow. 

LANCY.  [^Sitting  down  by  the  table^  I'll  begin:  left  an  orphan 
at  the  age  of  twenty -four 

MME.  DE  VERLI&RE.  The  story  of  your  life?  Then  why 
pass  over  the  years  of  your  childhood? 

LANCY.  Well,  if  you  insist,  I'll  start  from  the  beginning,  the 
way  Tristram  Shandy  does,  especially  as  there  is  a  clock  con- 
nected with  my  birth  —  as  with  his. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.      Good. 

LANCY.  Don't  be  afraid.  My  mother  often  told  me  that 
she  had  a  large  clock  in  her  room — with  a  gong  —  and  the  mo- 
ment I  was  born  it  joyously  struck  noon.  A  lucky  portent. 
So  that  from  birth  I  have  been  of  a  happy  and  humorous  dis- 


THE  POST-SCRIPT  221 

position,  which  age  has  not  yet  been  able  to  modify.  I  have 
an  inexhaustible  fund  of  energy  —  bad  for  melancholy. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  But  excellent  for  egotism.  Take 
care! 

LANCY.  Don't  believe  that.  The  only  good  people  are  the 
healthy  ones.  You  certainly  should  know  something  about  it, 
you  who  cared  for  your  late  husband. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.      That's  true. 

LANCY.  Well,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  I  was  the  possessor 
of  a  good-sized  fortune;    I  had  a  good  name 

MME.  DE  VERLl£,RE.  And  you  at  once  hastened  to  reduce 
the  former  and 

LANCY.  Tarnish  the  latter?  Oh,  no.  My  time  was  too 
much  taken  up  with  hunting  to  allow  me  to  do  anything  else. 
I've  always  detested  the  sight  of  a  card,  and,  let  me  tell  you 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.      Never  mind  the  details. 

LANCY.  Just  sufficient  to  make  my  point.  I  have  spent 
my  life  up  to  now  in  quest  of  the  ideal  woman.  I  have  often 
been  mistaken.  In  society,  out  of  society,  I  have  carried  my 
fruitless  search.  Where,  where  was  the  heart  that  would  give 
itself  freely,  without  afterthought  —  I  don't  bore  you? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      Oh,  no. 

LANCY.  Well,  I'll  be  brief.  Finally  I  had  passed  the  age 
when  a  man  marries  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  I  could  look  forward 
only  to  a  marriage  of  reason.  It's  extremely  difficult,  you  know, 
to  see  any  reason  why  I  should  marry!  But  at  last  I  think  I 
have  found  the  woman. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.       I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it. 

LANCY.      One  moment!      I  have  not  yet  been  accepted. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  You  will  be.  I  don't  see  how  it  can 
be  helped :  you  are  charming,  in  spite  of  your  infamous  methods 
—  but  we  are  losing  sight  of  what  you  first  said  to  me. 

LANCY.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  coming  to  that.  As  a 
bachelor,  I  could  be  quite  content  with  my  one  floor,  but  the 
moment  I  rise  to  the  position  of  a  married  man,  I  must  also  rise 
to  the  next  floor. 


222  THE  POST-SCRIPT 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  I  see.  You  wish  to  put  Madame 
de  Lancy  in  my  apartment? 

LANCY.      [^Rising]     That's  it. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  I  forgive  you,  because  your  motive 
is  good.  Though  it  is  inconvenient  to  move.  I'm  a  creature 
of  habit,  and  I've  become  used  to  my  place  here. 

LANCY.  [^Leaning  on  the  back  of  MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE'S 
chair2     You  won't  have  to  do  that:  stay! 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.      But  what  about  Madame  de  Lancy? 

LANCY.      She  can't  possibly  object,  so  long  as 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      So  long  as ? 

LANCY.      You  change  your  name. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.      What  do  you  mean? 

LANCY.  By  ceasing  to  be  known  as  Madame  de  Verliere, 
and  taking  the  name  of  Madame 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  De  Lancy?  Heaven  forgive  me, 
but  I  think  you  are  proposing? 

LANCY.      To  tell  the  truth,  I  think  I  am! 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.  [^Rising]  How  long  it  takes  you  to 
come  to  the  point! 

LANCY.  And  you  were  blaming  me  not  long  ago  for  being 
so  outspoken. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  [^Standing  by  the  fireplace']  My 
fault.  So  then,  I  am  to  be  your  partner  in  a  marriage  of  reason? 
Why,  you're  not  at  all  polite. 

LANCY.  Pardon  me,  we  must  get  down  to  definitions. 
What  the  world  calls  a  marriage  of  reason,  is  a  marriage  in  which 
neither  the  heart  nor  the  eyes  are  consulted:  where  one  marries 
a  woman  one  wouldn't  ordinarily  care  to  have  as  a  mistress, 
where  one  takes  her  forever  —  that  I  call  not  a  marriage  of 
reason,  but  a  madman's  marriage. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE,  Very  well;  your  statement  needed 
some  modification.      You  are  a  curious  man. 

LANCY.       In  what  way? 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  In  every  way  —  the  way  you  pay 
court  to  me. 


THE  POST-SCRIPT  223 


LANCY.  How  do  you  know?  I've  never  paid  court  to 
you, 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  There's  your  first  proof  of  originality. 
The  way  you  have  just  asked  me  to  marry  you  —  why,  I'd  have 
to  look  hard  to  see  in  you  a  sighing  swain. 

LANCY.  Sighing  is  not  in  my  character.  If  you  give  me  a 
good  reason  why  I  should  sigh,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so,  as  well 
as  anyone. 

MME.  DE  VERLIEIRE.      But  are  you  sure  you  love  me? 

LANCY.      As  sure  as  that  I  breathe  and  live. 

MME.  DE  VELIERE.       I  had  no  idea  of  your  love. 

LANCY.  Nor  I.  If  anyone  had  told  me  of  it  a  month  ago, 
I  should  have  been  very  much  surprised. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  How  did  you  finally  know?  I'm 
surely  not  a  coquette? 

LANCY.  No,  you  are  not.  Well,  this  fireplace  is  the  cause 
of  it  all. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.      Really? 

LANCY.  At  first,  of  course,  I  knew  you  only  by  sight,  but 
I  was  in  danger  of  never  really  knowing  you  at  all,  for  your 
mourning  would  have  kept  me  away  from  you  always  if  that 
good  fireplace  hadn't  taken  to  smoking  —  and  opened  your 
door  to  me. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  And  it  still  smokes,  when  the  east 
wind  blows. 

LANCY.  I'll  make  a  note  of  it.  —  From  that  day  on,  I 
dreamed  of  nothing  but  further  repairs  —  a  strange  dream  for  a 
landlord.  That  should  have  warned  me.  So,  one  thing  led  to 
another,  and  I  found  myself  here  in  your  apartment;  I  admired 
the  simplicity  in  which  you  lived  while  you  were  mourning  your 
husband.  I  soon  began  to  feel  the  effect  of  your  charming 
personality.  When  and  how  did  that  friendship  change  to  a 
more  powerful  sentiment?  I  cannot  say.  But,  consider  that 
I  had  resolved  to  end  my  bachelorhood  soon,  and  that  only  last 
week  I  heard  of  a  very  advantageous  union  into  which  I  might 
enter.      Well,  that  particular  one  inspired  me  with  disgust,  and 


224  THE  POST-SCRIPT 

I  somehow  felt  that  my  heart  belonged  entirely  to  you.  During 
the  past  week  I  have  been  worrying  and  trying  to  make  up  my 
mind  to  ask  you  to  marry  me  —  I  behaved  like  a  much  younger 
and  less-experienced  man.  Now,  it's  over  with,  and  I  tell  you, 
I  am  not  sorry. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.  [^Going  upstage  behind  the  table]  My 
poor  friend,  I  really  like  you;  you  are  the  most  gallant  man  I 
know. 

LANCY.      That's  a  bad  beginning. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  I  too  was  deceived  as  to  the  appear- 
ance of  our  "friendship,"  and  I  am  not  conscious  that  I  have  in 
any  way  encouraged 

LANCY.  I  displease  you  —  I  rather  suspected  it!  I  should 
have  said  nothing  at  all.  Well,  imagine  I  haven't  spoken,  and 
allow  me  my  corner  here  by  the  fireplace. 

MME.  DE  VERLI&RE.  You  will  be  welcome  as  long  you 
wish  to  come. 

LANCY.      That  will  be  always. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.      Even  if  I  marry  again? 

LANCY.      Oh,  no.      You're  not  thinking  of  that,  are  you? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.      What  if  I  did? 

LANCY.      Don't  say  that! 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      You  must  know  of  it  some  day. 

LANCY.  Really,  are  you — ?  No,  no,  that's  out  of  the 
question.  I've  never  seen  anyone  here  who  could  possibly  be 
thought  of  as 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  Here,  no,  but  was  I  not  telling  you 
that  I  expected  someone  to-day? 

LANCY.      I  was  prepared  for  everything  but  that. 

MME.  DE  VERLl£,RE.  Don't  look  so  desperate.  All  of  my 
heart  that  remains  for  me  to  dispose  of,  you  have,  I  should 
not  object  to  accepting  your  offer  if  I  loved  no  one  else.  What 
better  can  I  say? 

LANCY.  What  consolation  is  that?  Only  for  my  wounded 
pride.  It  needs  none.  I  should  prefer  to  have  you  displeased 
with  me,  and  have  you  care  for  no  one  at  all.      You  might  at 


THE  POST-SCRIPT  225 

least  have  kept  that  secret  from  me!  If  you  think  you  are 
consoling  me ! 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  No,  only  I  think  I  can  cure  you. 
In  a  matter  of  this  sort,  the  best  way  is  to  have  it  over  with  as 
soon  as  possible. 

LANCY.  Cure  me?  Then  you're  telling  me  doctors'  lies? 
I'm  not  so  simple  as  all  that.  I  should  have  suspected 
that  you  were  waiting  for  someone  —  the  way  your  hair  was 
fixed 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.      But,  I  tell  you 

LANCY.  Some  absent  beloved  one?  And  you  chose  pre- 
cisely the  day  of  his  arrival  to  put  that  flour  in  your  hair 


MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  Now  allow  me  to  tell  you  a  Httle 
story.      [_She  seats  herself  to  the  right  of  the  table.^  • 

LANCY.  {^Sitting  at  the  opposite  side^  Two  if  you  like. 
You  may  well  be  proud  that  you  have  quite  alarmed  me. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.     Do  you  know  Madame  de  Valincourt? 

LANCY.      Her  husband  is  one  of  my  best  friends. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  Three  years  after  she  was  married 
she  contracted  typhoid  fever,  as  a  result  of  which  her  hair  turned 
white. 

LANCY.      Yes? 

MME.  DE  VERLIEIRE.  Her  husband  adored  her.  So  long 
as  she  was  in  danger,  it  was  a  question  of  whether  he  would 
survive  her.      She  did  recover,  as  if  by  a  miracle 

LANCY.      Her  hair  turned  white 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  Her  hair  turned  white,  and  ever  since, 
her  husband  spends  his  evenings  at  the  club.  What  do  you  say 
to  that? 

LANCY.      Well 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  [^Rising']  Well?  Do  you  excuse 
him? 

LANCY.  l^Laughing^  To  a  certain  extent.  A  fine  young 
fellow  adores  a  brunette  —  she  suddenly  becomes  a  pepper-and- 
salt  Eurydice.      She's  another  woman. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.      ^At  the  fireplace']    You    are   all  the 


226  THE  POST-SCRIPT 

same!  Let  a  woman  be  good,  loyal,  sincere  —  it  makes  no 
difference:  it  is  the  tint  of  her  hair  or  the  curve  of  her  neck  that 
means  everything.  Become  a  coquette,  a  flirt,  be  as  selfish  as 
you  like,  his  love  will  remain;  but  be  careful  of  the  first  gray 
hair,  the  first  Hne  —  good-by,  happiness!  "I'm  very  very 
sorry"  he  will  say.      And  I  pitied  you  not  long  ago! 

LANCY.      Please  —  what  have  I  to  do  with  all  this? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  [^Returning  to  the  table]  And  you 
make  excuses  for  Valincourt  —  you  would  even  follow  his 
example,  if  the  opportunity  arose.  You  might  at  least  have  the 
courage  of  your  convictions. 

LANCY.  Let  us  try  to  be  reasonable:  are  you  attacking  me 
or  Valincourt? 

MME.  DE  VERLlllRE.  You,  and  him,  and  your  whole  sex. 
I  am  attacking  that  disgusting  way  your  love  places  us  on  a  par 
with  animals  —  somewhere  between  hounds  and  race-horses. 
Is  that  clear?  \_She  returns  to  the  chair  where  she  was  first 
sitting,  near  the  fireplace] 

LANCY.  ^Rising]  Very  clear.  Every  woman  who  prides 
herself  on  her  delicacy  of  feeling,  objects  to  being  loved  for  her 
beauty.      She  wants  to  be  loved  only  for  her  soul. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.      Ridiculous,  isn't  it? 

LANCY.  I  don't  say  that,  but  you  see  man  is  a  brutal  crea- 
ture, who  loves  only  with  his  eyes. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.      That  is  why  I  blame  him. 

LANCY.  Unfortunately,  that  is  a  natural  law  to  which  both 
sexes  are  subject,  yours  and  mine,  in  spite  of  all  argument  to  the 
contrary. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.      How  infamous! 

LANCY.  Now,  Madame,  tell  me  frankly:  if  you  loved  some 
one,  and  he  came  to  you  one  day  maimed  and  crippled,  wouldn't 
the  deformity  throw  a  little  cold  water  over  the  warmth  of  your 
affection? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  You  know  very  little  about  women, 
my  friend!  When  we  love  a  man,  we  think  only  of  his  intelli- 
gence and  his  heart.      We  scarcely  know  if  he  is  light  or  dark. 


THE  POST-SCRIPT  227 


If  such  a  case  as  you  mention  occurred,  we  should  be  doubly 
tender  and  affectionate  —  to  console  and  help  him. 

LANCY.      For  a  week. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.      For  a  life-time. 

LANCY.      I  should  like  to  see  you  put  to  that  test. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  If  I  were  only  sure  that  he  would  not 
succumb  to  the  test  I  am  preparing  for  him! 

LANCY.      Who? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.      The  man  I  am  expecting. 

LANCY.      You  still  insist  that  someone  is  coming? 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  '[Rising']  That  is  the  reason  why 
I  am  so  —  well,  this  flour!  I'm  going  to  tell  him  that  my  hair 
has  turned  white  during  this  absence,  and  that  I  must  now 
powder  my  hair  to  conceal  the  defect  —  the  —  what  did  you  call 
it?      Pepper ? 

LANCY.      And  salt. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  And  salt.  —  And  if  I  see  the  least 
sign  of  hesitation  in  his  eyes,  then  everything  is  at  an  end. 
[^She  goes  toward  the  right] 

LANCY.      Are  you  sure  of  that? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.       I  am  positive. 

LANCY.      Then,  will  you  allow  me  some  hope? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  No,  I  should  then  retire  from  the 
world  and  bury  myself  at  my  estate:   Verliere. 

LANCY.  [Smiling]  Have  you  no  place  for  a  friend  at 
VerHere? 

MME.  DE  VERLI&RE.  Please  don't  joke  about  it.  When 
I  think  of  this  trick  I  am  going  to  play  — 

LANCY.      Then  why  play  it? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      Ah! 

LANCY.      But  will  you  at  least  allow  me  to  know  the  result? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.      Yes. 

Enter  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  [Appearing  at  the  left]  Madame,  Monsieur 
de  Mauleon  is  here. 


228  THE  POST-SCRIPT 

LANCY.      [^Aside]     Monsieur  de  Mauleon? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      Good.     I'll  be  there  directly. 

The  SERVANT  goes  out. 

LANCY.  [^Distantly]  It's  he?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
at  first?      I  should  have  gone  without  saying  a  word. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.      Why  so?      Do  you  know  him? 

LANCY.  l^Taking  his  hat,  which  lies  on  the  table^  Slightly. 
I  only  know  that  he  is  a  consul,  that  he  has  been  in  India  during 
the  past  two  years. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.      Well? 

LANCY.  You  are  a  widow  —  pardon  me.  [[//c  goes  towards 
door  at  the  right^ 

MME.  DE  VERLIEIRE.  Monsieur  de  Lancy!  [//c  5/0^5] 
I  don't  wish  you  to  misunderstand  about  this  gentleman.  I 
should  like  to  deserve  your  esteem. 

LANCY.      You  are  too  good,  Madame.  —  Monsieur  is  waiting. 

MME.  DE  VERLI&RE.  One  moment:  it  was  I  who  asked 
the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  to  have  Monsieur  de  Mauleon 
sent  away. 

LANCY.  Well,  you  are  right  in  not  loving  me:  I  don't 
deserve  it.      I  have  offended  you. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  Yes,  but  you  didn't  displease  me. 
You  at  least  were  original  and  you  now  don't  offer  to  do  the 
conventional  thing.  That  shows  that  my  reputation  means 
something  to  you. 

LANCY.  [^Going  toward  her^  Your  happiness,  too,  take  my 
word  for  it. 

MME.  DE  VERLIEIRE.       I  believe  It. 

LANCY.  Then  may  I  ask  a  simple  question?  Do  you 
know  that  a  short  time  after  his  installation.  Monsieur  de 
Mauleon  made  love  to  the  daughter  of  a  rich  merchant? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.       I  know  it.      What  then? 

LANCY.      If  you  know  —  well,  that  is  all. 

MME.  t)E  VERLIEIRE.      I  was  not  free  when   I    knew  him. 


THE  POST-SCRIPT  229 


Why  should  I  ask  him  to  sacrifice  his  life  for  a  hopeless  love? 
He  has  no  money;  marriage  is  part  of  his  career,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  that  marriage  he  tried  to  contract  would  have  taken 
place  had  he  not  been  so  heart-sick,  and  consequently  so  careless 
in  his  love-making. 

LANCY.  You  are  so  indulgent  that  I  find  it  hard  to  explain 
you. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  You  are  so  severe  that  I  can  explain 
you  only  too  easily. 

LANCY.  I  must  admit  that  I  am  partial.  I  would  give 
a  great  deal  to  be  your  father  or  your  uncle  for  five  minutes! 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.      But  you  are  not. 

LANCY.  So  I  remain  silent.  Good-bye,  Madame,  I  wish 
you  all  happiness. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  And  I  wish  you  to  speak.  Why  do 
you  behave  this  way  about  a  man  whom  you  scarcely  know? 

LANCY.  Scarcely  —  but  what  I  do  know  of  him  is  charac- 
teristic. I  acted  as  second  to  an  adversary  of  his,  and  let  me 
tell  you  that  we  were  not  the  first  to  cry  "Stop!" 

MME.  DE  VERLl£,RE.  Were  you  Monsieur  de  Saint- Jean's 
second? 

LANCY.      Then  you  know  about  the  affair? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.  Everything.  Monsieur  de  Mauleon 
was  altogether  in  the  wrong;  he  wouldn't  admit  it,  but  it  was  I 
alone  who  made  him  offer  an  excuse.  Nor  was  that  the  only 
mark  of  affection  he  gave  me.  I  felt  so  deeply  about  it,  that 
it  became  necessary  to  send  him  away.  You  are  rather  unfor- 
tunate in  your  method  of  attack,  my  poor  Lancy  —  but  you  are 
right:   Monsieur  is  waiting!      Good-bye.      \^She  goes  ouQ 

LANCY.  She  loves  him.  \^A  pause^  Doubtless  she  will 
tell  him  of  her  trick  the  moment  she  has  tried  it.  Why  should  I 
wait  here?  For  the  wedding  invitation?  [^He  sits  down  by 
the  fireplace.  Another  pause^  Hope?  {^He  rises']  Go  away? 
I  can't  stay  down-stairs,  while  they  are  having  their  honeymoon 
up  here!      No,  my  woods — the  solitude  of  the  country 


230  THE  POST-SCRIPT 

After  a  few  moments,  during  which  LANCY  15  plunged  in  meditation, 
enter  MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  She  enters  slowly,  not  seeing 
LANCY,  who  is  at  the  left,  and  throws  a  visiting  card  on  the 
table.       Then  she  sits  in  her  chair  by  the  fireplace. 

LANCY.      [^Aside']    Ah!      She   seems   so   thoughtful!      [//e 
coughsJi 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.      [^Turning  around']     It's  you! 
LANCY.      Back  so  soon?      Then,  did  Monsieur  de  Mauleon 


MME,  DE  VERLlfcRE.  [^Preoccupied]  Oh  no,  he  was  per- 
fect. Not  a  moment's  hesitation.  He  even  thought  that  white 
hair  was  more  becoming  to  me. 

LANCY.      And  is  that  why  he  left  so  soon? 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  I  asked  him  to  leave  me  to  myself 
for  a  little  while.  He  is  coming  again  this  evening  for  tea. 
After  this  strenuous  morning,  I  must  pull  myself  together. 
I'm  so  glad  to  find  you  here  now. 

LANCY.  May  I  be  drawn  and  quartered  if  I  know  why  I 
am  here!      Good-by,  Madame. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  —  not  in  the 
least. 

LANCY.      Do  you  want  me  to  be  present  at  your  triumph? 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  My  triumph?  Ah,  yes,  I  ought  to 
be  the  happiest  of  women  —  but  I  am  almost  sad. 

LANCY.  Great  joy,  they  say,  is  nearly  as  trying  as  great 
sorrow. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.      That  isn't  it,  it  is  —  all  your  fault. 

LANCY.      Mine? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE,  What  you  have  said  about  Monsieur 
de  Mauleon  is  troubling  me  a  great  deal. 

LANCY.  I  am  more  troubled  than  you,  Madame.  When 
you  left  the  room,  I  began  looking  into  my  conscience,  and  to 
blame  myself  for  saying  the  things  I  did. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  Really?  Then  restore  my  faith; 
you  will  be  doing  me  a  great  service.      Sit   down.     [JLANCY 


THE  POST-SCRIPT  231 

sits  on  a  chair  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace,  his  hac\  half- 
turned  to  the  audience\  I  think  too  much  of  you  to  allow  myself 
to  think  well  of  a  man  who  has  not  your  good  opinion. 

LANCY.  \_Resigned~\  I  have  no  reason  to  refuse  my  esteem 
for  Monsieur  de  Mauleon. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  Now  I  can  breathe  again.  And  that 
love-affair  in  India ? 

LANCY.      You  said  it  yourself;   could  he ? 

MME.  DE  VERLl£.RE.  Never  mind  what  I  said  —  what  do 
you  think?  Only  tell  me  that  you  would  have  behaved  as 
Monsieur  de  Mauleon  did;   that  will  satisfy  me. 

LANCY.      I  would  have  acted  as  Monsieur  de  Mauleon  did. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfeRE.      At  the  end  of  three  months? 

LANCY.      Time  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  Pardon  me:  either  Monsieur  de 
Mauleon  forgot  me  too  soon,  which  would  be  most  ungallant 

LANCY.      His  return  proves  that  he  is  not  that. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  Or,  what  was  still  less  gallant,  he 
was  offering  a  heart  which  did  not  belong  to  him. 

LANCY.  You  should  not  blame  him  for  that!  At  any  rate, 
he  lost  his  courage  at  the  last  moment,  because  the  marriage 
never  took  place. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      But  did  he  prevent  it? 

LANCY.      Oh 


MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  {Lauihin{\  It  was  his  fault,  wasn't 
it? 

LANCY.  Oh,  that  is  just  the  point  I  want  to  clear  up  —  I 
must  do  him  justice  in  this  matter. 

MME._DE  VERLI6.RE.  Yet  his  duel  lessened  him  in  your 
eyes? 

LANCY.  You  see,  I  did  not  know  he  was  acting  on  your 
orders.      Now  I  agree  entirely  with  you. 

MME.  DE  VERLI&RE.  \_A  little  put  out]  I  am  delighted. 
So,  my  dear  friend,  if  I  ordered  you  to  make  excuses  under 
similar  circumstances,  would  you  do  it? 

LANCY.      Certainly. 


232  THE  POST-SCRIPT 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  Would  you  even  put  yourself  in  a 
position  to  receive  orders  from  me?  Would  you,  for  instance, 
tell  me  beforehand  that  you  were  going  to  fight  a  duel? 

LANCY.      Please,  Madame,  I  must  be  going! 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.      No,  no,  answer  me  —  please. 

LANCY.  [^Embarrassed^  Monsieur  de  Mauleon  is  not  very 
careful  what  he  tells,  I  must  admit.  Possibly  he  liked  the  idea 
of  appearing  in  a  dangerous  position  before  you.  That's  no 
crime,  of  course. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  But  he  must  have  known  what  I 
would  do? 

LANCY.  [CarefuIIyJi  He  was  making  the  greatest  sacrifice 
a  man  cam  make  for  a  woman. 

MME.  DE  VERLI&RE.      Do  you  think  so? 

LANCY.  And  just  now  you  have  put  him  to  a  conclusive 
proof. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.      Conclusive?      You  think  so? 

LANCY.      Undoubtedly. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  You  should  keep  to  your  opinions: 
you  are  a  perfect  weathercock. 

LANCY.      How  do  you  make  that  out? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  Tell  me,  do  you  believe  that  men 
love  in  a  vastly  different  way  from  women? 

LANCY.      Oh,  you  know  I  am  a  brute. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  [Rising]  So  are  all  men  —  more  or 
less.  So  that,  if  they  have  only  one  way  of  loving,  and  if 
Monsieur  de  Mauleon  does  not  love  me  that  way,  then  he  does 
not  love  me  at  all.      You  should  at  least  try  to  be  logical. 

LANCY.      How  quickly  you  argue! 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  [Looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror'] 
Then  isn't  it  extraordinary,  his  complete  indifference  to  my  — 
what  shall  I  say? 

LANCY.      Your  beauty. 

MME.  DE  VEElLlfeRE,  Yes.  If  I  possess  anything  that  is 
worth  looking  at,  it  is  my  hair.      I  think  he  hardly  noticed  it. 

LANCY.      [Smiling]    He  loves  your  soul. 


THE  POST-SCRIPT  233 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  Don't  make  fun!  — And  then,  if 
he  doesn't  really  love,  just  see  what  I  must  think? 

LANCY.      What? 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  {^Reseating  herself  opposite  LANCY] 
You  don't  seem  to  want  to  understand  anything  to-day  I  Didn't 
I  tell  you  he  was  without  a  fortune? 

LANCY.      You  are  blaming  him  for  it. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£RE.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  think! 
I'm  so  nervous!  My  dear  Lancy,  you  were  wishing  not  long 
ago  you  were  a  relative.  Imagine  that  you  are,  and  advise  me. 
Please! 

LANCY.      I  should  be  far  too  prejudiced. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  No.  You  are  the  incarnation  of 
loyalty.      I  will  obey  you  blindly. 

LANCY.       I  advise  you  to  marry  me. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.       I  didn't  ask  you  that. 

LANCY.      But  that  is  all  I  can  say. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.  Tell  me  truly,  do  you  think  he  loves 
me? 

LANCY.      /  love  you  too  deeply  to  doubt  it. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  \^Rises  impaliently,  goes  across  to  the 
table,  then  returns  quickly  to  LANCY]]  Well,  if  he  loves  me,  so 
much  the  worse  for  him;  I  refuse  to  marry  him.  I  am  sorry  to 
have  to  disagree  with  you 

LANCY.  \^Rising']  Do  you  think  you  are  disagreeing  with 
me?      I  am  the  happiest  of  men. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  You  are  entirely  wrong,  my  poor 
Lancy,  for  I  refuse  to  marry  you  too.  I  am  not  so  tired  of  my 
widowhood  as  that.  If  you  wish  to  remain  my  friend,  very 
well,  if  not  — 

LANCY.  I  do.  But,  tell  me,  if  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
this  sudden  change  of  mind,  what  did  Mauleon  have  to  do  with  it? 

MME.  DE  VERLIEIRE.       I  have  told  you  everything. 

LANCY.  Everything?  Is  there  no  post-script?  Women 
always  have  them. 

MME.  DE  VERLlllRE.      Not    the    faintest   shadow    of    one. 


234  THE  POST-SCRIPT 

l^She  siis  down  at  the  left  of  the  tableJi  Now,  what  must  I  do?  I 
am  not  consulting  you  —  you  are  perfectly  horrid  to-day. 

LANCY.  A  woman  always  has  the  right  to  take  back  her 
word. 

MME.  DE  VERLI£rE.      I  have  never  given  mine. 

LANCY.      Not  just  a  few  minutes  ago? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  No.  I  don't  know  what  instinctive 
prudence  prevented  me,  though! 

LANCY.  [^Standing  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table']  Nothing 
simpler:  he  is  coming  to  tea  this  evening  and  then 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.       I  wish  he  wouldn't. 

LANCY.      Then  write  to  him. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      I've  written  to  him  too  often. 

LANCY.      He  has  letters  from  you? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  Not  many,  and  they  are  not  in  the 
least  compromising. 

lANCY.      Return  his,  and  he  will  return  yours. 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  [^Looking  into  the  table  drawer]  Here 
are  his. 

lANCY.      Where  does  he  live? 

MME.  DE  VERLI&RE.  He  left  his  card  —  [^She  points  to  the 
card  on  the  table] 

LANCY.  l^Tal^es  the  card,  goes  toward  the  door,  then  retraces 
his  steps]    When  shall  I  see  you  again? 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.      Will  you  come  to  tea? 

LANCY.      [^Bowing]     With  pleasure. 

MME.  DE  VERLlfcRE.  [5////  looking  through  the  drawer] 
Oh,  I  forgot  this  little  case.      Take  it  with  the  letters. 

LANCY.      [^Taking  the  case]     A  picture? 

MME.  DE  VERLIERE.  No  —  a  lock  of  hair  he  sent  me.  He 
won't  be  sorry  to  have  it. 

LANCY.      Hasn't  he  any  now? 

MME.  DE  VERLIEIRE.  He's  as  bald  as  the  inside  of  your 
hand! 

LANCY.      \^Aside]    The  post-script  I     \^He  goes  out] 

CURTAIN 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  610  988     8 


